


The Ft. Factor

by larriebane



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Famous Harry Styles, Famous Louis Tomlinson, Fluff, Harry as the popular pre-show fave, Louis as the "new name", M/M, Music Show, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Secret Relationship, Smart Louis, Strangers to Lovers, not a song fic, ot5 are already established singers who cover each other's songs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 10:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18826411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larriebane/pseuds/larriebane
Summary: Some people fall in love in a week.For Harry Styles, it happens in the middle of a rebrand, on the brink of an expiring, fixed-term contract with an old friend which had meant stability and safety, forced on a show he doesn’t want to be in while still mourning for the loss of a father figure. He’s not expecting one person to fix it all, but they do.His name is Louis Tomlinson and he doesn’t need a week.





	The Ft. Factor

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, welcome to my eight symphony. (Quite literally,since this is my eight finished fic, I have deleted a few). I was hesitant to post this in one chapter but I couldn't figure out how to divide it.  
> More about the fic in end notes, I hate to blabber in these beginning notes.  
> Enjoy the fic!

**_25 th of May, Southern England._ **

Twelve o’clock finds Harry at the end of a driveway closely monitored by the crew behind him. The make-up team last retouched his forehead a quarter ago. Guarding him against the wind is only a thin tee. His joints crack as he shuffles on his feet for the hundredth time and, after glancing down, tries to cover the obvious circle of damp dirt with his boot. Just as he’s managed to drag some dry gravel to cover it, a shape moves between the oak trees in the distance.

The crew takes position. A bearded man with a camera laid on his shoulder runs to where the car would stop, a tall man holding a boom mic above his head shadows Harry as he studies the clouds of dust on the car’s wake.

He squares his shoulders.

The car is silver. Sporty. Harry knows only—as the crew has been silent about the arrivals’ timing in hopes of genuineness—that out of all guests, Niall Horan, his best industry-friend, would never ride one of those. It crosses Harry’s mind it could be the one he’s never heard of, and he fights off the consequent beads off nervous sweat. The slight advantage he thought he had, being the one to greet the others, seems to vanish since the realization that everyone else will have an entrance.

The first cameraman is now an opening door’s distance away from the arriving star, and a close-cropped head of silky black hair rises from the low to the ground car.

Zayn Malik. The man takes his hand and makes passing eye contact so quick harry can’t tell if he looked at all. Well shit. They have an introvert-introvert problem, they have an eye contact problem, they have a Taylor Swift problem. They also have a privacy problem; a three cameras and about seven million viewers problem.

Harry tries to seek out contact himself but, since meeting the lowered eyes of someone couple inches shorted would require contortion his bad back won’t allow, he gives up. Zayn separates himself from Harry’s grip.

Later, Harry comes to think about Malik’s rumours of totalling his latest car and of him being in a fake relationship with Harry’s ‘ex’, driving him anxious to the point of awkwardness about it being brought up in front of cameras. Right then, Harry just considers Zayn withdrawn as he brushes past Zayn towards the crew.

“Take a break, boys. Next guest is running late,” says the supervisor with a headset. “There’s some trouble with local authorities.”

Authorities? What are they driving, a tank?

“You know,” Zayn starts; Harry jumps, “for a promotional piece, Mercedes isn’t the worst possible.”

Then he seems to realize he’s given a golden opportunity for Harry to bring up _other_ _cars_ and colours.

“Liam should’ve been next, I think,” Zayn starts anew, “I thought I saw his car parked at a gas station when I exited the A23.”

“Why would he arrive by car too—?”

A noise comes from behind the manor, steadily rising, until a black shape swoops past the roof, and takes an extra lap while they set the cameras back up and check the feeds.

“Well,” Harry says as he bites his cheek in jealousy, “unless Bruce Payne over there is joyriding an update, I don’t think that’s the Batmobile.”

Given its cue by Headset-Man, the chopper makes its way down to the tennis court sized spot of smooth, green grass to the left from them. Black, sleek and gleaming, it shuts its engine and while the rotors are still in the process of slowing, a man steps out. Aviators on, dazzling smile on place despite wearing even _less_ than Harry, the wind ruffles Liam Payne’s loose pants as he sets his steps towards them. Harry shivers in the gust; leather-jacketed Zayn remains unfazed, though, and is even wearing an impressed smile.

“Hey, hey, big guy. You’re not James Bond yet.”

“Just thought I would get a good word in, you know, to up my chances.” Liam seems to attempt to slap his hand through the back of Zayn’s jacket. “Was that Tom Hardy worthy, do ya think?”

“I don’t know,” Harry drawls, “could have done with more hair-blowing action.”

Over Zayn shoulder, Liam’s buzz-cut head turns to Harry, a puppy smile transforming into a knowing grin. After all, it was him that had called Harry’s hair _greasy_ on BBC Radio 1, with Harry’s best friend Grimmy, no less. The fact that the latter did nothing in defence of his favourite artist doesn’t improve the bitter taste in his mouth.

“Harry, I couldn’t almost recognize you there. What’s happened to your hair?”

“Yeah, well, cutting it is one of the trade-offs of having actual movie roles.”

It is so easy. So effortless to fall back to the familiar pattern of jabs, turned from a promo plot into genuine friendly banter they carried on on their own.

Liam disentangles his grip on Zayn, and attaches himself to Harry’s side, hand cupping his neck.

“I’m not here to stroke your ego,” he says.

“Why not,” Harry says back, ready to indulge in his favourite game. “I’ll stroke yours, if you stroke mine.”

Liam’s following stutter is a pretty good payment for the BBC betrayal. Never play gay chicken with a shameless gay. Ears still flushed, Liam wraps his arms around himself, and says no more. Zayn is looking towards the manor behind them with a calculating look. Harry glances sideways at the team for reassurance; he expected the timing to play differently. Soon they’re all freezing.

“That t-shirt any good?” Liam asks him, knowing the answer but perhaps seeking verbal validation to his own misery.

“No,” Harry says, miserably, a tremor in his legs. “Does the name Tomlinson say anything to you?”

“I saw him at ITV Studios’ headquarters when we were introduced to the show’s terms and conditions. First thought there must’ve been a mistake, thought they’d meant another Tomlinson, since the guy barely has four singles to his name…all of them from 2015. Nothing after that, nothing before that.”

Harry deflates. “Right.”

“He could be one of those YouTube-found talents, right? Like Bieber but, unlike him, he then decided he wasn’t quite ready yet and dropped off the face of earth. Smart, actually. That theory is clashing with his #87 Spotify place, though.”

Harry frowns. “You must have got that wrong. _I’m_ at 70 with five times more singles.”

“I swear I saw something below 100s.”

A chill raises gooseflesh on Harry’s neck, and it has nothing to do with wind.

“So,” Liam now rubs his hands together in giddy excitement, “who’s next. I want to see if they can one-up my entrance.”

Harry makes a halted _Hah!_ sweating for what could be _bigger_ than a helicopter. He takes a step backwards, makes accidental eye contact with the camera, and he must have stepped in front of something they were about to film because people behind it aggressively wave him aside.

He stands, stiff again, at the edge of the frame pointed to the billowing, green golf course that spreads just north of them, licking along the lake. And suddenly it makes sense. Looking like a 1920s paperboy that travelled to the future, stole blue chinos and pulled them up to his armpits, the man strides closer to the three of them.

It’s Niall. His rock in this madness. Sturdy. Unshakable. Harry’s grinning genuinely for the first time since they turned the cameras on. Niall’s hair’s wind-blown, no doubt having been at the fields for a while with his own camera team, getting shots of his swings for the background of the opening credits. Or so they had told Harry when they had filmed him pulling his tee on and scratching his head at the ten pairs of color-coded boots.

As they hug, Niall releases his left-handed grip around the strap of his golf bag, and the club heads get crushed between Niall’s shoulder and Harry’s arm. The cold steel bites but his friend’s shoulder is just the right length he can lay his head on it without (further) hunching his back.

Then, once everyone’s gotten their greetings and welcomes in, he privately says, “Nice pants.”

Niall grimaces. “It’s not like anyone would _actually_ golf in clothes like this.” He lifts his legs to demonstrate how it bit into his thighs which look like he finally grew quadriceps since Harry last saw him in person. “The pants are too tight, kept shooting too left, good thing they can edit footage so it looks like I hit something other than the fucking rough.”

Harry bursts into laughter. The crew makes sure to capture that from afar. He turns his back to it, letting his face sour.

“So, Tomlinson.”

Niall’s neck cricks as he meets Harry’s eyes.

“You know him,” Harry says, terrible realization sinking in. He is close to congratulating the team for timing it this way. But Harry’s known Niall forever, and if they think he can’t milk something from the worst liar to ever lie in the span of minutes, they are badly mistaken.

“What about him?”

Niall raises a hand to bite at his nail but fakes an itchy scruff at the last moment. Suppressing his tells means NDA level of secrets in Niall-language. This might be harder than Harry has thought.

“You’re friends,” says Harry accusingly.

“We’ve just bumped into each other at a couple award shows...modelling gigs…”

“You ‘just bump’ into Halsey, too, and you know a lot about her. People _talk_ to you because you are easy to talk to.”

Niall looks predictably flattered but evades skilfully with, “Honestly, behind the scenes there’s not that much time—”

“Oh, look! Someone’s coming.”

They all see it at the same time: a boat cutting across the waves before turning a sharp left and coming stern first to a stop at the wooden dock. Liam is already moving in unintentional half-run down the hill, Zayn following more leisurely but evidently speeding as well. Harry is thus side-tracked from his interrogation which has Niall slipping past him, quick as an eel, to join the men on the dock.

Harry’s first glimpse of the mysterious new guy is when the boat throws a rope that is swiftly tied to a sturdy metal ring. A man steps out of the boat; a sudden appearance of bare ankle glistening in sunlight holds Harry in place. The man preens his wind-ruffled fringe, blue eyes eagerly taking in the manor.

Niall is the first to come forward with an intimate, “Tommo!” and wrapping the smaller man in a hug. The others encouraged by this follow, leaving badly caught off guard Harry the last to greet the fifth and final guest. He feels himself, as if in a dream, stepping forward and making his way to them. He shakes Louis’ hand, who has the good grace not to flinch at the iciness of Harry’s frozen peripheral circulation.

“An honour to share screen time with a superstar like you.”

The man speaks in a northern, rough-with-high-pitches voice that takes Harry aback; he half-expected a bell-like, melodic sound.

“No, the honour is all mine, to put a face to the name, finally,” Harry says mechanically.

Behind Tomlinson, Liam looks on unworried, but Harry knows he’s been outshined. Louis Tomlinson does not need a bigger gadget—he _is_ the ‘bigger’. Yet, Harry isn’t threatened; he’s charmed. All his blood evacuates his brain, too.

“But I’m…not really that big,” he goes on.

Big? He’s never been this badly flustered.

Louis smiles a small smile. His lips twitch like he’s trying not to laugh. His eyes soften around the corners, casting them in the shadow of his lashes. _Oh hell,_ thinks Harry.

Flushed, out of breath, Harry slips behind the three men—suddenly very safe, very well-known—and digs his pockets. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for in his jeans. Perhaps to buy time to even out his vital signs. Behind his closed eyes his mind paints a picture of a large sweater, thin waist, tattoos, heels slipping out of the loosely laced sneakers.

“Chopper, you said?” Harry hears the voice attached to those images say. “Man, you know how to make an entrance. How ‘bout you, Niall?”

“I walked here.”

“Man of the people, I see.”

Harry lets them talk, nodding along and agreeing whenever there was a change he might be seen at the back of the frame, but his mind has left the conversation: for the first time since his agent put in the final words of his attendance, he feels excited.

Something in Harry stirs on that cool afternoon at the dock, a tiny rebellious fire of want…or something that, if left unchecked, could become want, and even when they retake the interactions five times before the producer is happy, Harry’s mood refuses to sink.

 

***

 

“Friends,” the executive says, arms grandly spread wide to give an air of welcoming at the crew and guests, “welcome. Today is an anniversary of the day that a little boy’s wish came true, a wish that was made thirty years ago when I stood next to my father’s camera on the set on Saturday Night Live in 1989. Watching my father raise names such as Mike Myers and Adam Sandler to fame, I knew right then I would one day create a show that popular…wide-reaching…have it recognized as a phenomenon of popular culture.”

Harry keeps his body angled towards the exec but is watching the four other men covertly. After a few minutes of this monologue, Liam is getting visibly tired of idleness and begins to shift on his feet. Watching him, Harry suddenly catches Louis’ eye from the third row and turns his head hurriedly to the speaker.

“Who’s he again?” Liam whispers behind Harry, who shushes him.

“I hope someday my own daughter will follow my steps as well,” the man continues and raises his flute of champagne. “Here’s for success.”

Harry knocks back his glass, listening to what Niall is saying to Liam behind his back. They are only a couple feet away from the edge of the stage, Zayn on his side, who is standing stiffly with his flute untouched.

“That’s Ben Winston,” says Niall, “one of the execs—hey, mate, if you won’t finish that…” Niall snatches Zayn’s glass and drinks it in four long gulps. “He’s very fond of the sound of his own voice.”

“Another?” Liam’s lips twitch. “My, they strut around here like peacocks.”

“The _leading_ executive producer,” Harry feels necessary to point out. Winston is pompous but on the other hand, he’s the creator of this concept so Harry finds it prudent to not let him hear them belittle him—until he swoops down on them a few seconds later, that is.

“Harry!” Winston comes to shake his hand vigorously. “So good to have you here. I hope the accommodations are to your liking. Room facing the sunset as you asked?”

“Sure,” says Harry who tries to avoid Liam and Niall’s eyes. “All’s great.”

Winston beams at him.

“If you ever need good tea I’ve got something I’m hiding from the others. Don’t tell Trevor,” he says surreptitiously with a wink.

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Harry says with a mostly-straight face, and luckily, Winston is tugged away by Trevor the producer himself before he loses his composure completely. Niall and Liam have the presence of mind to hold their howling laughter until Winston’s back is a safe distance away.

“Oh, Harold. How absolutely _wonderful_ to be graced by your presence,” Liam mocks.

Niall is wiping tears while even Zayn has broken into a soft smile. All the while Louis stands isolated, weirdly quiet ever since the cameras turned off, and when they wrap up their little pre-party, he has yet to say a word.

Behind their backs, facing towards the lake, the event place is mundane in size, in its worn brick and weathered limestone walls. A multitude of mystical visions cross Harry’s mind. It must be haunted. It has to be. He imagines a faint light streaming out of a window and a translucent figure moving while a wailing scream pierces the misty spring air.

This is very probable since the manor was sold after the sole heir died in Dunkirk in 1940. Perhaps a heartbroken mother? He’s seen The Woman in Black, after all.

“If any of ya come to ‘haunt’ behind my door,” starts Niall, likewise eyeing their future place to stay, “I’ll—”

He breaks off into a zealous expression of great violence.

“Do you reckon, if you died during war, would you haunt the place you died in or the place you used to live in?” Liam muses which has Niall storming away. “What? What did I say?”

Liam leaves, and Harry and Louis are left alone. Harry is expecting an awkward silence. Then—

“Hi.” There’s suddenly a spark in Louis’ blue eyes that hasn’t been there before. “Nice to finally officially meet, behind the scenes, and all.”

Harry still hasn’t caught that damn breath back. “Hi.”

“Big fan. I went to your concert last June. Pretty loud.”

“Oh, yeah. It’s such a rush I don’t really remember but I’ve seen the videos, and I think I may have overdone it a few times, with the rainbows and stuff…”

“I meant the screams.”

The breath is back, and Harry chokes on it. “Oh.”

“Nothing wrong with gay, though.”

Yet, it sounds stiff as if Louis has repeated it to himself over and over again until he can say it with the right tone—or, until he’s convinced himself it’s true.

Harry’s voice, when he continues, has a colder edge to it he can’t help. “Right.”

“Have ya seen your rooms, yet?” says Niall.

Harry and Louis jump as though they have been jerked away from a daydream straight into the garden of the manor.

“I swear the wallpaper in mine has all the colours of the wind. If colours could be loud—”

Truth is, Niall’s context was wildly different but when the two of them hear the adjective, they flush beet red.  Louis and he stand deadly still, unable to look at each other. Instead, Harry catches Niall’s eye who gives him a quizzical look as though he’s waiting to get invited into the joke. When they say nothing, his face changes—like light crossing a landscape—as realization strikes.

 _This will become a problem,_ Harry thinks, wordlessly pleading Niall to let it go.

“…right, the wallpaper,” Niall starts, gaining confidence as he speaks. “It’s all yellow and grey to me, of course but. Think ya can drop by? I want your opinion where to put my Obama poster.”

That Niall pulls it off without raising visible suspicion in Louis, is proof of Harry and his solid friendship.

Just as Niall has managed to steer Louis away, Harry seizes the moment to go to his room for the first time without being shadowed. It’s still bare, lacking life and clutter. An interior designer has been in there, though, since Harry has the exact $1,800 pendant light that hangs above the nightstand. Country romance dies a sudden death once inside, doesn’t it?

Secretly, Harry rejoices the three floors that guarantee his safety. Should the foul spirit come from the attic or the basement, it needs to travel through at least one floor before reaching his quarters.

But it’s not the spirit that comes knocking but Niall who has a laptop laid on one forearm and a bag of crisps hanging from his mouth since his other hand grasping the door’s handle is occupied by a bottle of beer.

“I’ve got the WiFi password. It’s SEASON6ROX with an x, all caps,” he says once he’s spat the bag on Harry’s bed, “Just kidding about the password, but I thought ya might want to hear what Tomlinson sounds like.”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to tell me anything,” Harry says, but pushes a pillow off the bed to make room for his friend.

“At the time. Contract expired, like, five minutes ago, so. They just wanted to secure a big reaction—”

“Oh, they got a big reaction, all right.”

“And not the one they were hoping for. This is hilarious! They wanted drama and competition but instead, they got a smitten popstar.” Niall starts to giggle uncontrollably. “Sorry—it’s just—you face was— _priceless.”_

“What, what did I look like?”

“Like you’d been struck in the arse by a very gay cupid. Hey, Harry—” Niall gives a final whoop of laugher, _“Gay!_ Imagine how hard they’ll find editing the footage to find an angle where it looks even remotely straight.”

As a matter of fact, Harry _can_ imagine.

They sit on top of Harry’s linen, listening to Louis’ songs (finding barely enough singles to share between the four of them after they have dug deep into the internet for bad YouTube lyric videos from 2012), which are surprisingly emotive and delicate for a voice you describe with an adjective like _raspy_.

“Niall?”

“Hmm?”

Harry wonders if he should ask at all, looking at Niall hunched over the screen.

“Do you think—”

“Did ya hear that C5 with upper chest?” says Niall, who has apparently not been listening at all.

“Hey, cheaters,” says a third voice. “I heard music.”

Liam has poked his shaved head through the door, and finger guns at their laptop. Were the walls that thin? Jesus, Louis could have heard them…

“Don’t act like you weren’t the first to crack,” Harry says.

Niall finally looks up, looking rather unfocused, and Harry is sure even he is finally feeling the pressure at the sight of Louis’ talent.

 The bed dips as Liam joins their investigation. With the tree of them, the bed is so narrow that their shoulders keep brushing as they lean for some crisps.

“I don’t trust a guy without a dark side but…” Liam lets it hang, kicks his legs straight, getting comfortable. “Have you found his charity work yet? Wait…let me open his Twitter.”

He extracts his phone from his pocket and thumbs it until finding the page he wanted.

The topmost tweet is the general scheduled kind about the start of the filming, but couple before that are retweets of links to GoFundMe’s and a selfie with a kid he had bought a fancy wheelchair for. Then—

The rustle of Niall’s bag of crisps and Liam’s chewing is suddenly the loudest noise in the room. The excitement of a few seconds before has vanished like it never was there to begin with.

Niall and Liam are already watching him when Harry looks up. Liam tugs the phone to his chest, looking a little alarmed by Harry’s expression.

“Don’t take it too personally, I heard there’s some stuff going on behind the scenes,” Niall says to Harry as if to a wounded, possibly deadly animal.

“It feels really fucking personal,” Harry grumbles and recounts his conversation with Louis earlier that day.

“Listen, it doesn’t make a very nice reading,” Niall says eventually, “and I’m not trying to defend what he wrote but his words to ya don’t sound to me like somebody who’s…wilfully intolerant.”

“But paired with _that?”_ The tweet seems to wink at him maliciously from the screen. “You didn’t see his _face._ It was like…it was like…”

Truthfully, Harry doesn’t know what it was like. Or he does, but it doesn’t make sense for the words and Louis’ expression to conflict like that. However, he is rather upset that Liam and Niall don’t seem to share his reservations about Louis’ character.

“Give the man the benefit of the doubt. Louis’ the odd man out here. Maybe he was just nervous, and it didn’t come across quite the way he intended. I don’t remember you being a real Shakespeare out there.”

“Liam’s right, Harry.”

The words are no worse than their usual teasing, but Harry is hurt, stressed, and feeling bloated from too many salty crisps, so he hisses, “Well, neither of you were gay last time I checked, so of course it’s gonna feel less serious to you.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Hot Stuff—”

Liam is stopped by Niall, who hates conflict. Harry acts as though he has not heard Liam speak. Again, something on his face seems to decide them against pursuing the subject, and thus Niall packs his empty bottle and laptop up and leaves with Liam in tow.

“No use,” he hears them speak just outside his door, “remember the time he lectured those paparazzi that shouted at him? Could’ve been worse.”

The empty bag is still on the bed on Harry’s feet.

Harry knows his team, in solidarity, followed all the boys he wasn’t already friends with this morning, and tramples down the petty need to unfollow Louis Tomlinson—if only for a while before his social media interns scramble it back on. Would the several moments be enough for his fans to catch up on?

Nothing is to be done for the tweet, though:

 

 

> **@DanWootton I don’t know where you get your facts, but I am very much in love with a woman**

 

Harry feels dazed. He stoops, picks up the empty crisps bag, and throws it away, only to see that a sign saying, ‘Louis Tomlinson’ has appeared on the bedroom door beside his since morning. He also knows the rooms share a balcony. He goes to it, still hungry for a good shouting, but the curtains next door are closed tight and there’s no light inside.

 

 

DAY ONE

Wednesday

 

The dawn marks the start of their individual days as a host. Louis’ day is first. It’s still cold, but the wind has lessened. Even colder, though, are Harry’s feelings at the decision to choose the least known first. Feels like a safe bet to leave four famous ones overshadow this day in case Louis flops. Harry’s insulted on his behalf but also flattered that production trusts them to keep viewers interested until the end.

Breakfast is served in the main floor where the kitchen staff have arranged buffet carts full of oats, sausage, eggs, toast, fruit and bacon. Louis has single-handedly made a large dent in the container of cereal, leaving Harry pick up spilled pieces of Frosties from his porridge. Their eating is open to viewers, though, so he tries not to let his annoyance show. Niall eyes him warily as he butters a toast.

To Harry’s amazement, given that it was he who went to the kitchen to personally shake hands with the staff, on that very first morning the head chef has her hands twisted in her apron, trying to make out a reaction as Louis tests her tea blend. Louis sets the cup down and smacks his lips.

The lady is charmed, and a warm cuppa is promised to wait for him every morning. Everyone has taken a liking in him; the kitchen has fallen for him, he has the make-up team doing his bidding, one would resent him if they weren’t a little bit in love with him, too.

Harry covers the just-attached mick on his collar, and asks, “What’s he really like when the cameras are off?”

“Here we go again. You keep trying to convince yourself he is a villain.” Niall looks like he’s expected this. “Everyone thinks he’s sweet or so they told me after they met him in March to go through the contractual stuff. Too bad you had the movie promo that day.”

“Too bad.”

“Do yourself a favour and watch the music videos on his VEVO account again. Pay special attention to the background set pieces.”

Harry’s curiosity is roused. “What’s there?”

“Something you’ll like.”

Before Harry can inquire further, Louis’ voice interrupts the breakfast: “Meet me in the yard in thirty minutes. Oh, and put on something sporty.”

Niall raises his brows at Harry. “And so it starts…”

Once back inside his room, Harry spends his thirty minutes wisely: getting answers for the doubts Niall roused in his head, and to erase the idea of a very dangerous thing brewing in its depth.

The first sighting is in Before You. He sees the menu Louis is perusing and just catches, in the corner of the specialty dishes, something pink and geometric. That doesn’t prove anything, really. It’s just a frame for the “GLUTENFREE!”

However, in the next video, it grabs your attention immediately. They cut to Louis sitting in an old convertible—and _that_ is a rainbow on his t-shirt, there is no coincidence about that.

Which begs the question, What is going on…?

 

***

 

There are two goal posts and four balls in the garden facing the lake.

“Football?” asks Liam.

“Excellent,” says Niall enthusiastically.

Harry and Zayn seem to share the feeling this is _not_ something to feel excellent about. Harry’s busy fighting with his own conflicting feelings towards their host to notice Zayn eyeing him curiously.

“What’s up with him,” he asks Niall. “He looks…”

But apparently he is unable to say exactly what Harry is like, and after an awkward pause, he just shrugged. Niall gives Harry a look.

“Harry reckons our host is homophobic,” Niall tells readily and, at Zayn’s expression of bemusement, gives a great nod towards the manor, completely ignoring Harry’s dark look.

Zayn, who Harry expected to smirk or snigger at him, frowns.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not. Try to keep telling _him_ , though. Once you get on his Blacklist of Unforgiveness there’s no getting out.”

 _“I don’t—”_ Harry starts hotly but just then, Louis exits the manor. He’s wearing a fitted red-and-white jersey with a fifth ball at his side (Harry gets the feeling that if he Googled a list of official FIFA World Cup balls, he’ll find a match) and is finishing a playful banter with a crew member over Sheff United.

“—and start supporting Donny, mate! All good, lads?” Louis says eagerly, coming to a stop in the middle of the group. “First ever footie game, let’s see how the setting holds up. Niall, you’ve got a bum knee, mate. We won’t hold it against you if your team loses.”

“Depends who you’ve put in it,” Niall says.

Harry feels his face grow warm and ducks to retie his shoelaces. When he emerges, he is sorry to find the cameras are already rolling and Louis is on full flow about football.

“So, stretches first,” he is saying, snapping a headband into place. “You wouldn’t charge into a battle without proper preparations either, would you?”

Trying to stretch his quads with Louis squatting next to him is very off-putting but Harry has a go. Even thought he knows the climate might not be so favourable for _coding_ , he can’t help looking back at Louis every once in a while, just to check there isn’t a triangle tattooed on his neck or a ‘love wins’ in cursive on his bicep.

Finally, they play two against three (Louis and Liam against Niall, Harry and Zayn: Harry and Zayn play poorly, and Liam is good enough for the two of them, so the teams are fairly even). The freshly cut grass smells strong as it’s being trampled underfoot by them, staining their knees green when they slip on it. Harry doesn’t need to wait long for his turn for a quick dye job. He has his eyes on the airborne ball in the middle of their field when Liam comes crashing to him from the right, and just as he’s got the ball to himself, he feels his legs being thrown from under him by a collision to his side.

“Foul!” cries Niall, who shoots both hands in the air.

Liam pulls Harry up, brushing grass of Harry’s leggings with an apologizing smile. He picks the ball of the ground and offers it to Harry.

“Let’s give him a clear field, all right, lads,” says Louis, backing away.

Suddenly Harry realizes that if he wants his attention, this is his moment to make an impression. He drops the ball to the soft grass where it stays thankfully put, bites his tongue between his back teeth as he looks at the goal and kicks. He was actually just hoping to get it into the right direction at a solid speed, but it soars into the post and ricochets to the far-right net, making him look far better than he is.

There’s a great roar of surprise from Niall who gallops to pound Harry’s back, who stands quite still in astonishment.

“Jesus, Styles,” breathes Louis, breathless from running and the surprise, “that was almost perfect top bins.”

Louis is, then, sprinting towards him in a rush of wind, blowing the scent that lingers in his hair to Harry who inhales, twice, deeply.

“Beginner’s luck,” he says, toeing the dirt, swaying.

Louis makes a vulnerable sound at the back of his throat. “You’re taller than you look next to your burly security.”

“I hunch.”

“What on Earth for?”

Before Harry can reply, Niall whistles Louis away with, “Hey, no sabotage, no distracting my team member.”

Louis goes. There’s a slight flush to his cheeks as he spares a quick glance towards the camera crew. Harry follows his gaze to a man giving him thumbs up. _Good material, surprise talent!_ he imagines them talking going through the footage.

Harry also imagines trying to conceal his uncoordinated limbs from Louis the rest of the week and immediately resolves to move as little as he can.

 “On your right,” says a voice.

A thin set of shoulders are suddenly in front of Harry and he stares at the Tomlinson printed in white on the back on the jersey. The ball is rolling again; it seems Louis is everywhere where the ball touches ground.

“Watch the knee!” Niall’s heard shouting to Liam.

 Harry quietly observes their scuffle as he backs right into someone’s arms. “Ow.”

Louis touches his waist, anchoring his upper body back on top of his centre of gravity. Harry blushes; the spark is back in Louis’ eyes.

Second later the ball is on him and under him, and Harry watches Louis score. Niall complains Louis is winning because the rules are his, and Harry, who hasn’t caught onto the rules well enough to have an opinion, stays mum.

At a stand-still, where Louis and Liam are loudly arguing whether Zayn used a hand or not, Harry is watching Louis arrange his hands on his waist. It tucks the jersey impossibly closer to his curves, and when Harry closes his eyes, a flash of memory from all his fumbling plays on the backdrop of his eyelids; suddenly the game is too still. He pushes from his seat on the grass, walking to Niall.

“I think we just found someone worse than you.”

“At football?” Harry says distractedly; Louis has just taken his headband off and is fluffing up his fine hair. “Sure, I guess, but I wouldn’t go that far—”

“Not Zayn. Not football, either.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

Niall doesn’t reply.

The sports are soon over, though Harry will deny giving Louis easy passes and claims that Louis can be excused for blatantly showing off since it is _his_ day, and Harry is quickly ushered into clothes change. Still stuffing the shirt hem into his slacks, Harry is positioned in front of the camera in the sunlit garden. The pace exhausting, but he’s thankful because this way he can’t constantly brood over Louis Tomlinson if he wants to keep up with the demands of the crew.

“Okay, format reminder, Harry,” says one with a nasal voice. “We need you to talk about the song you’ll cover tonight. What are your feelings about it, how you picked this one, and your personal history with this song.”

And by history, they mean the one they invented; hardly any of them have heard these songs.

“Let’s put the stool under the tree,” the nasal goes on. “Not so close or we lose the sun.”

Meanwhile the rest of the manor is preparing the dinner; steam billowing off the kitchens, light technicians carrying equipment through the patio doors into the ‘Entertainment Room’ with the stage; at times the wind carries the sound of one of the boys practicing for tonight’s entertainment.

As they find that night, the access to the Entertainment Room from inside the house has been cut off by the towering loudspeakers, amplifiers and snaking cords. Sunset finds them stepping through the patio doors that open to a scene of a large table set for five, standing in the middle of the room. Fifth and biggest chair faces the makeshift stage lit by dozens of spotlights hung from the ceiling.

The four of them shuffle for a while before settling into their places: Niall and Harry with their backs to the windows, and Zayn and Liam elbow-to-elbow on the other side. As Harry stretches out his feet, he notices on Louis’ feet a pair of Gucci bee-embroidered sneakers he’s hiding under the table—an inside fandom joke, he says.

“…and it’s EDM-rap mix. I mean, electronic, club kind of meaningless pumping and rap? Do one right,” Louis is saying to Liam.

With that, Liam tells Louis he should give rap a chance because he’s going to get some. He rings his glass with a spoon to halt the chatter around the table. It comes to a stop quickly.

“Sorry to interrupt,” says Liam, lowering his spoon, “but I scored the first performance. Lucky me.”

If there’s ever been a more heart-breaking intro to a night, Harry can’t remember it. Louis walks them through his life leading to his artistry—school band, theatre, musicals, followed by a brief anecdote about getting the record deal—until they reach the year before Louis’ hiatus and what happened then. The four guests sit in silence while the light outside dims and the crew has to amp up the lighting overhead. At the news about the loss of his mother—so young, so loved, so _good_ —they feel like intruders upon a family grief.

Harry doesn’t know which is worse: Louis’ tight-lipped but casual face or that he feels the need to explain he _has_ been working these past couple of years, just under a pseudonym. Harry has a mad urge to hold Louis’ hand.

“I guess the last album and the little recognition it got is the reason why I came here,” Louis explains to them, finishing the lengthy monologue (which the viewers will undoubtedly get as a slideshow with bits of a pre-recorded interview). “To make the most of my life since, you know, I’m kind of living it for two right now.”

A thick silence falls. It’s as though they’ve all forgotten whatever scripted necessities they needed to perform post-intro.

“What rotten luck,” Niall sums up, unscripted and delicate as ever.

But it’s enough. Suddenly breaks the tension like putting a needle through a balloon. Then, the story gets the others inspired, and in some way, saves the night from turning too bleak. Sharing their own experiences with motherly support takes half an hour (far more than could fit in the episode), but the cameramen are happy to let them talk it out. Everyone has funny memories, and the latest mood has them sound even better than they are. The extra material now on the film roll, that will get cut out eventually, doesn’t faze Harry; this was private lives shared just between the five of them.

Next minutes are filled with silence but for the chink of plates and the scraping of plates when they reach over the table for another helping. One by one, the boys perform—beautiful, lyric-driven music with heartfelt, almost autobiographical sentiments of life—and hear generic stories behind the songs. They all look pleased to have their first covers successfully over.

Finally, Harry is the last singer left.

“Right then,” he says unsteadily.

All of a sudden, the lights are hot, the situation hotter, and he fears the sweat collecting on the small of his back is wetting the wireless transmitter strapped into his belt.

Louis gives him a thumb up, mouthing, _Go for it._

Harry is then struck by a feeling of boundless possibilities: he feels like he can do anything, anything in the world…and singing his first cover suddenly sounds doable but also like it’ll be a breeze.

He straightens up confidently, feels the beat in the floor. It is not a physical feeling, though, that has him so sure of his success; it’s like Louis’ smile illuminates him the way ahead several notes at a time. He can’t see the end of his song but he knows the light will bring him there.

After the last note of the piano stops ringing, Harry opens his eyes and gets a confused impression of three faces staring at him from the table. Where is Louis? There, already striding towards him and suddenly Harry’s cheeks are squished between Louis’ neck and shoulder, Louis’ bony chin resting, up-tilted, on Harry’s own shoulder. He doesn’t realize his tears until they run down his cheek and a hand comes to cup the back of his neck like a child’s.

They stay that way for what feels like a minute, an hour, perhaps half a day, until Harry’s hiccups have quieted.

Liam, Niall and Zayn, when Harry eventually seats himself, are making rather a meal out of stacking their dishes into a neat pile for the staff. As they fuss, Harry dabs the sheen on his forehead with a napkin, trying to inconspicuously dry the half-dried tear tracks gleaming on his cheeks as well.

“Thanks for the music, lads,” Louis says rather loudly. “I think this does a nice wrap up”— (he turns to the crew) — “unless you need more from us?”

Harry feels a rush of gratitude towards him. The crew has nothing to say. They got up, one by one turning over their mics and leaving through the door. Louis, who apparently has nothing more to say either, glances at the clock hopefully one last time before leaving too.

The more Harry stared at him, the more he saw: how Louis would sit ankles crossed but, noting the presence of the cameras, move into a brash man-spread in a move so fluent it is long-practised. _Nothing wrong with gay_ was starting to sound a lot different in his mind.

That night, the curtains are open; just a peak, but Harry can see light through the gap.

 

 

DAY TWO

Thursday

 

Rap-ta-tap.

Harry wakes up from a cycle of shallow sleep to the sound of knocking. Curtains blocking the windows, it’s too dark to see anything but the shapes of the furniture and his new guitar leaning against the wardrobe.

Clonk.

Harry shoots up in bed. Dubiously he goes to feel the heater next to the balcony doors. Maybe some air bubble is making noise in the pipes. It’s cold, though. Summer, Harry sighs to himself.

Creak.

Okay, Harry is officially creeped out. He lights the design lamp, hunting for a change of clothes, and rushes downstairs while still fighting to get his head through the collar. At the last steps leading down, he realizes he’s grabbed his notebook instead of his phone.

In the main level, the breakfast has already started. Harry counts Liam and Louis, deciding he should not tell the latter there had possibly been sounds coming out of his room in case his superstition became apparent when the sounds were proved false.

“Harry! Come sit with me,” Liam calls for him from the couches.

How is he so chipper? Last night was emotional; the cameras were turned off at 1 a.m., and after two hours spent to cool the rush off, it left room for only five hours of sleep if you wanted to catch the 8:30am breakfast…which Harry is almost late from. He makes a mental note to check the batteries of his trusted alarm clock.

He sinks into the cushions next to his friend. The energy spike caused by the creepy noises has left him and taken with it whatever energy he usually has on mornings.

“Well, look at you almost jumping on the walls this morning,” Liam comments, pushing his untouched coffee to Harry. “I almost thought you would skip breakfast completely but that didn’t sound like you.”

“Alarm failed.”

“At least you got sleep.” Liam lowered his voice. “Keep an eye on Louis, would you? I caught him up at 6 a.m., looking a bit worse for wear. All-nighter, if I’ve ever seen one. I felt pretty rude to just pass by to the bathroom without saying a ‘good morning’ but he was on the phone with some family and after yesterday…well…”

Harry gets what he means. Louis is sitting on the couches at the other side of the room, so deep inside his large grey hoodie that Harry only recognized him by the distinct curve of his back.

Niall slumps on Harry’s other side before Harry can contemplate further the meaning of Louis’ private tears.

“Everything ready for your activity?” Liam asks Niall.

“The crew needs a few more minutes to finish since some of us slept late.”

“Is that what the noise was about?” Harry asks, relieved.

“What noise?” Liam asks.

Niall eyes Harry like he’s trying to figure out if they are making fun of his fear of ghosts again. Harry couldn’t be further from mocking him right now.

“Never mind,” Harry says eventually.

Liam, satisfied that something is going to happen soon, stands up. Harry peers back at Louis again, who’s shedding the hoodie, revealing a yellow jumper underneath. Niall looks smug about this.

“Should I take your kicked puppy look as affirmative that you watched the videos?”

Liam picks up his plate with more clinking than necessary, suddenly not looking at Harry, although he’s wearing a somewhat self-satisfied smile as well as he leaves to return the dishes. Harry gets the feeling he has just confirmed a suspicion of theirs.

“Niall, _what the fuck_ did I see,” Harry hisses quietly when Liam’s back disappears behind the carts.

“Search me.”

“It all sounds too convenient…”

Niall’s imagination is clearly racing ahead, far beyond Harry’s. “Perhaps, but why not. Why _not?”_

“Because it feels like I’m fitting everything into the story."

“No, it fits of its own accord. But I think, between the two of us, you’re more equipped to read into that language,” Niall says carefully as if trying to avoid an argument like that of their first night’s. “Hey, is that for tonight?”

Niall tries to pry the notebook from Harry’s clutch but is unsuccessful.

“C’mon, Harry, just a peek. Ya know how I hate surprises. They’re going to have to censor half the dinner to keep it PG.”

“No, no, no. It’s not for you,” Harry argues, and when Louis looks up at the noise, he can’t fight off the following blush.

Niall lets out a noise that’s far too understanding.

“He’s got a girlfriend…of six years,” Harry says defensively but then he hesitates, because that’s information he got from the internet.

“And if he’s gay, that’s an obstacle how? A beard is not the end of the world, all things considered.”

“Easy for you to say,” mumbles Harry, thinking of Taylor Swift.

Nonetheless, his heart is beating quickly. What if they are right? Could it be true? Unbeknownst to him, he’s started to hold onto the hope that it is.

When he goes back upstairs for more camera-appropriate wear, writing down little marks to remind him of what he wants to do with tonight’s melody for later, he hears a muffled noise and, skittish as of late, he recoils. He cranes his neck as though it would make the voice clearer.

There’s a cornflower in the wallpaper, and Harry knows somewhere behind it, is the room of a man whose eyes are almost the exact same shade. At this point, he’s stopped all movement, breathing shallowly.

“…you can’t afford mistakes, Mr. Tomlinson, and that shirt—”

Louis speaks quieter than whoever is arguing with him, and Harry doesn’t catch his reply.

“There is a certain message it sends; don’t take me for a fool. One distinctly gay man in here is fine, there is no need for you to ally for a _parade_.”

A chill goes down Harry’s back at the same time as a hot feeling boils up his chest. What an archaic jerk! Who is that? Harry traces his steps back to his door, gradually lowering the handle. The door next to him is closed, and the voices more distant, which leads him to the conclusion they must have had the balcony door open. Cursing his bad luck, Harry is about to click the lock shut when the neighbour door swings open with a force that leaves the ‘Louis Tomlinson’ nameplate shaking.

The sudden _bang!_ and Harry’s following scurrying ends with an ajar door and sore fingertips where they have been caught between his door and the frame. Brisk footsteps beyond the room retreat to the stairs as he nurses his throbbing hand, but when he finally stands, he sees a hooded figure through the gap.

“You caught some of that?” it asks.

It has rather high a voice for a foul spirit out for blood. Harry blinks.

“Have you got an outfit picked for tonight? Make it loud, Curly.”

Louis the spirit then trails after the angry man, and Harry gets to finally close the door, perplexed.

 

***

 

Zayn has found a hiding place. Harry doesn’t know where it is—nobody does—but he always disappears for hours and, so far, has suddenly reappeared just in time to catch something important. Whatever and wherever it is, it must be indoors for him to finish his music.

Out of the five of them, Harry thinks he and Zayn are dealing with this the hardest—Zayn because of his anxiety, Harry because he has the most pressure. Zayn has come to accept this, Harry can’t. Then again, Harry doesn’t have a place to escape the hustle and bustle to.

This is why he’s starting to cherish every break, even if they mean doing sports.

“Well,” Niall starts the introduction to his chosen activity tentatively once they are all gathered in the main hall, “I was thinking before…” he shoots a look at the other side of the cameras, “I was thinking that—maybe it’s time for something less sporty.”

“Like golf?”

“I was thinking of something more important than golf.”

The boys goggle at him.

“I feel like we as artists have had to grow up faster than normal,” Niall tells them, and Harry sees with ominous feeling that his face is suddenly alight with the kind of fervour only golf used inspire in him, “so I thought we should get to be kids for one day. Treasure hunt!”

However, the day soon gets a darker turn—and not only by the overcast sky: a handful of fans have slipped past the security and got as far as the front door before being caught. Asked firmly to stay put, the five of them listen to the shouts from the yard with mixed feelings. No one has said whose fans they were, but Harry thinks he’s got a fairly good idea.

He’s not scared for his safety, though; rather, he feels abashed that something of his has compromised the rest of the boys’ privacy.

Liam waves off the information that someone could have broken into his room and stolen his underwear. “No harm done, Harry.”

Feeling slightly cheered by the time the situation has calmed and the treasure hunt for hidden eggs can proceed, Harry’s humming his own theme song for achieving good mood quickly: Shania Twain’s _I Feel Like a Woman,_ and thus, sets off.

A stair creaks on his way upstairs. Not under him. He sees the angled wrist trailing on the railing and sees the red tracksuit bottoms through the roman pillars. Harry quickens his pace, and Louis startles when Harry falls into step with him. Maybe he has a theme song as well to get through the days. Maybe Harry has just interrupted _Here Comes the Sun._

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen egg number twenty-eight?” Louis says.

Harry, who is trying to think how many eggs they expected them to find each, is counting the possibility of the existence of #28, so he just shakes his head; they are nearing their rooms, and the silence becomes more stifling on every step closer.

This is not the first time they talk after Harry watched the VEVO videos, but they have both treaded lightly around each other.

“I’ll frankly be pretty bummed if I don’t get it,” Louis goes on.

“They hid them in our rooms, too, right? You can check mine first. I’ll stay and watch no one goes to yours.”

Louis stops walking; Harry knows why. They aren’t that close, the silence is proof of it.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You won’t mind?”

“I don’t mind.”

Louis nods and goes in uncertainly. Harry wonders what shape he left his room in but doesn’t need to worry too long. In next to no time, Louis comes out, shaking his head.

“Nothing?” Harry asks.

“Not a shadow.”

Harry can tell Louis didn’t dig through everything in respect of his privacy. He’s touched, though, that it meant more to Louis than acquiring the mysterious number twenty-eight. Still, Harry stays mum.

“Hey,” Louis says softly, “you can come to mine, and see if I have your lucky number or something.” He shrugs a slender shoulder. “It’s only fair.”

Again, Harry doesn’t say anything. He holds out as long as he could, somewhere around three to five seconds before nodding, in a would-be casual way.

Louis’ room is green to his blue—not spring green, but dustier. Same layout and decorator but there’s one difference: this room’s pendant light is made of copper.

“Sorry for the mess,” apologizes Louis.

At this, Harry looks around the floor but only finds two t-shirts thrown away on top of some joggers he remembers Louis wearing on the first day, and a tea-stained mug next to the bed.

“You know how, when you travel a lot, you have certain things always at the bottom of the bag you don’t even touch?” Louis talks like he needs to fill the silence. “You just replace the topmost layers with fresh clothes and leave the house again. I think there’s about a year’s worth of odds and ends at the bottom.”

Looking at Louis’ family memorabilia spread proudly next to the bed, Harry feels stabs of regret and longing. There’s nothing on _his_ bedside except his charger, his alarm clock and a book. Then follows a sudden surge of memories of lost parents and parental figures…

Harry thumbs a suddenly wet eye corner.

“You have so many pictures here with you,” he says rather hoarsely, walking to the bed.

Louis looks at him curiously.

“Oh, yeah. I don’t know what that says about me. Guy forgets to bring enough socks but, hey, at least he brought a picture of all his family members, and there’s six siblings. That’s a lot of picture frames in one bag, now that I think about it, the socks wouldn’t have fit.”

“It tells me you care a lot about them,” says Harry.

And to his surprise, although it is in character given what he’s seen so far, Louis does a weird wiggle like he doesn’t quite know how to receive the words. It is rather like a subdued preen.

“I love them,” Louis says, and shoots an unconscious glance at the frames. When he looks up, the blue of his eyes is very shiny. “I heard about your stepfather.”

“Yeah?”

The tightness in his throat is back tenfold. Harry tries to look busy, so Louis wouldn’t ask further.

It doesn’t work.

“You all right?”

Harry and Louis stare at each other over the twin bed. A long, long silence stretches, and Harry waits for Louis to give it up and chance the subject…but it is like someone has told Louis not to break it, you have to wait.

Then Harry very slowly places the pillow he has been ‘examining’ back on the bed and, avoiding eye-contact, starts talking.

“Everything’s been kind of…stiff between my mum and I after… He had been moved to London for this expensive, experimental, new treatment. Mum never asked for the money—I know she couldn’t have scraped together a sum like that herself…I don’t know why she didn’t…and then it was too late.”

“You feel guilty,” Louis says shrewdly.

“I am guilty,” Harry says, driven by a mad urge to have Louis, perfect Louis, stop looking at him like they were equals. “They paid my rent and other necessities before my first pay check post-record deal. I just keep thinking, without it they could have had the money. I could have done without a London flat.”

“And then you wouldn’t be here. We’d have never met.”

Harry looks up and finds Louis still looking at him.

“Hindsight is useless when driven by the guilt of a survivor. Take it from a guy that wished he had died instead,” Louis says. “Sounds like she may have made a deal with her husband and that she wanted to protect you from knowing the specifics before, well…you know, the way mums sometimes believe keeping their children oblivious is the best protection from the cruel, real world—oh, oi oi!”

Yeah, thinks Harry as he watches Louis dig an egg from under the mattress, that sounds _exactly_ like his mum.

The silence is broken when the bedroom door swings open with windows-shaking force. Louis muffles a rather high-pitched scream and drops the egg he found; Harry flinches away from the bed like he’s been caught at something indecent but stumbles on a discarded shoe. From the floor, he realizes he’s looking up at a cameraman recovering from his own stumble, whose cheeks are flushed and panting from running upstairs.

“You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” he says, and shoots a glance at the egg on Louis’ feet. The number 28 is facing the ceiling. Louis huffs and kicks it under the bed in disgust.

“They just spoiled the fun from this egg hunt,” complains Louis in undertone when they follow the man downstairs, having put the egg back under the mattress to be ‘found’ when the time comes.

Harry makes a pun about eggs and fun. Louis laughs, but too soon his vacant eyes return to the walls and Harry wishes he kept his mouth shut; out of all things, he should know better than to have Louis think of Johanna Deakin.

 

***

 

“You need _a what?”_

“A new suit.”

“I thought you said that.” A sigh. “Harry, you know I encourage all this but not if it comes with a three days’ notice. This a bit bigger than Gucci earrings.”

Being torn to two directions, Harry doesn’t answer. This suit has been teasing him in the outskirts of his imagination: vague and unformed plans where Louis serenades his cover just to Harry because he can’t look away, have been buried in his subconsciousness.

“Harry?” says his namesake, Harry Lambert, sounding like he has been calling his name for a while. “Shit—did I lose him...?”

“Uh—? Yeah, I mean, no. I’m still here.”

“Where’s your head at? You sure you can’t work with the old…,” Lambert pauses and amends, “all right, I kinda see where you’re coming from if you’re thinking about switching suits. The first ones are—”

 “Too plain for the end of the week,” Harry finishes.

Lambert hums and pretends to consider but Harry knows he’s got him intrigued.

“It’s day two, right?” he finally asks. “What are you replacing my magenta Gucci suit with and why?”

_“Your suit?”_

“You know what, it might as well be considering how much time and care I put into finding them for you. Now, spill.”

There is no simple way to put the situation into words. He looks at his reflection, frown distorted by the bevelled edge…

_I went to your concert last June. Pretty loud … nothing wrong with gay, though … you can’t afford mistakes, Louis… make it loud, Curly…_

And he sees himself again, in just few hours, in this loud Day Five suit, facing Louis. In these images, he is happy and tells Harry what a strong choice the glittering bomber jacket is. They’re tempting. However, amazing as Lambert is, is couple days’ time doable? Especially if he needs to pull something better than this? Especially when they prefer younger brands who might not have the resources to keep several sizes just laying around.

“Sue?”

Lambert’s voice has taken a concerned edge now.

“It’s complicated but dig that old mood board back up, I want it loud,” Harry says finally, mind made.

It’s not thirty minutes later that the old Day Five suit is officially getting its early debut, reflecting light, and glittering in the corners of his vision as he reaches for his glass.

“Harris Reed?” Liam guesses.

“Went through his whole portfolio. It’s a gold mine,” Harry gushes. “You should hear how he talks, I could quote him all day. 'If it’s not hated enough, you’re not taking enough risks’.”

“Sounds like your kind of designer,” Liam begins—then breaks off as an assistant opens their dry bubbly with an unexpected _pop!_

They have gotten through the soup and the seabass without a single tear; now eating sticky pudding, Niall’s engaged Zayn and Louis into an inconsistent recollection of how they met: at Brit Awards versus in a pub a week before that.

“Haven’t seen you in anything skin-tight in a year, then again, hasn’t your newest wardrobe wonder, Harry L., been around for about eleven months now?” Liam muses as he pours liquid into Harry’s glass. “You know if you wanted to put on end to those ‘narry’ rumours, you shouldn’t have dressed to the nines on his day.”

“You caught me, we’re about to elope after tonight,” Harry deadpanned. “The jacket’s a bit stiff to be honest. It wasn’t meant to be performed in, I kind of switched the suits around.”

“I imagine Harry wasn’t too happy with you.”

“Not one bit but he’ll come around.”

“With help?” Liam shoots him a knowing look. They laugh. Harry’s eyes catch Louis’ from the opposite side of the table.

Is Louis happy? It was his idea, what if it’s too loud. What if he was only meant to dress in something that _hinted_ , and has just done a huge disservice by looking like he has pushed that nice gesture into comical extremes—

Louis smiles. Harry exhales.

Unlike yesterday, Harry doesn’t have to wait until the sky outside is no longer shot with pinks and blues for his turn. Unfortunately, being first of the night means he’s on the stage without dessert, looking mournfully at his pudding.

Unsmiling, Harry nods at the band for the cue and faces the several stares before him—Zayn with his arm casually prodded to support his chin, Liam and Louis leaning over the table since they were sat awkwardly sideways, and Niall with a look of clear anticipation.

It is strange, different this time as the lost nervousness of first performance and a more familiar song lull him into security. Instead of anxiety-driven flow, he is stuck watching the table, wondering where to land his eyes.

It is a level of intimacy he’s not used to.

Suddenly it’s hard to remember what pronouns he changed for the bridge. _'Cause if I'm being honest, I ain't over_ him _yet_ , he thought. But he can’t tell how it goes on. Louis’ face seems to be boring into him like the bottle opener.

And the contact remains all the way to the last beat, which is followed by an unusual silence. The late applause is punctured by a couple quiet sniffles picked by the mics.

“Two out of two. Branched out from the pop, have you?” says Liam, eyebrows raised.

 _“Fu_ —frack, I can’t believe ya made my break-up depression more depressing than I ever did,” says Niall, who is not crying, but whose Irish skin is pretty red around his nostrils. “Boys, ya’d better picked some happier songs. I know I wrote some.”

Harry sits himself down next to Liam and, in next to no time, a chair scrapes the floor. Louis has stood up. The boys’ congratulations die faster than one could blink. Harry feels butterflies start their rounds anew in his stomach, though they can’t be much compared to Louis’, whose jaw is set as he sets off, looking determined, toward the stage.

“Go, Tommo,” Niall whistles.

The camera that followed Louis’ strut to the front of the room zips back. Harry has the very uncomfortable feeling it is looking at him and he turns in his chair to face the stage. He has been, after all, given an innocuous motive to watch Louis.

Louis, who, from somewhere behind the band, picks up a violin and from the moment it is properly propped on his shoulder and his cheek is resting against it, Harry is transfixed. As he follows the bow wring fine notes out of the strings, he leans forward until his necklace is all but taking a swim in his cup of coffee. Then, when Harry thought it won’t get better than this, Louis lowers the bow and starts singing.

A chill goes down Harry’s back. The room is full of his voice, which has improved beyond all recognition; there is something intellectual in the way he approaches the song, how his theatre background is obvious in his articulation—clearest compared to Zayn, who tends to be lazier in his consonants—and how even with the distraction of the extra instrument, he stays at the top of the song without breaking a sweat.

There’s an odd warmth to his chest whenever he looks at Louis. Harry tries not to look too often for that reason.

This time, there’s no silence, the applause is instantaneous and thundering. Niall gives Louis barely enough time to set the violin down safely before pounding to him, crushing him into a bear-like hug. Harry doesn’t see much of Louis from behind Niall, but he does remember how Louis’ hands grip the back of Niall’s shirt, bunching up the fabric until his knuckles are white. Not so confident as he let on, Harry thought and watched Louis seat himself.

His eyes are dry but he’s blushing from the subsiding adrenaline rush. For only a second, he glances back at Harry until they both glance hastily away.

Later, after wrapping up successfully, Louis and Harry are the last to leave again. The doors of the Entertainment Room open to the black mass of the lake. Since wrapping up, the darkness has deepened until the passing hours made it impenetrable. Outside, they stumble upon Zayn lighting a cigarette right outside the doors. He follows lazily on their heels as they start to round the house, talking.

“We had some pretty good songs today, didn’t we?” Harry tries to encage their third party. “What do you think, Zayn? Zayn?”

Harry looks around. For a bewildered moment he thinks Zayn returned for something he forgot inside, then he sees his shadow on the opposite corner of the house, shoulders hunched.

“Just a second, Louis,” he says and sprints after Zayn.

Introvert or not, Harry debates with himself, no likes being alone. Zayn slows down as he hears his steps, but Harry reckons it’s only to drive Harry off the trail to Zayn’s secret lair.

“You all right?”

Zayn lifts the cigarette off his mouth. Its lit end is reflected in his eyes.

“Could be better,” he says in a gesture of surprising frankness.

“What d’you mean?” Harry says quickly.

This time Zayn is slower to answer. The cigarette is brought to his lips twice during the stretching silence. The acrid puffs feel as though they are about to be permanently sunk in the fabric of Harry’s clothes. The after-scent must be pleasanter, though, since Zayn’s never smelled off to him.

“Think they’re gonna cut my performance shorter for tv so that they’ve conveniently left out the word _Allah?_ he asks suddenly.

“Well…”

The honest answer is ‘yes’ but it’s not the one Harry wants to give. Zayn gathers the answer from his countenance, though.

“It’s too political, isn’t that the usual bs?” he says glumly when he flicks away ash. Behind his shoulder, Harry sees Louis wave at Harry a goodnight. There is something approving in his air as he disappears behind the house that has Harry floating several feet above the grass. Then, Zayn’s voice has him jumping guiltily to present.

“Sorry,” Harry says, “I lost that one.”

“I bet,” says Zayn but doesn’t repeat himself. Instead he leaves to leisurely walk further the north side of the manor. Where there are no doors.

“Are you going to your usual hiding place?” Harry can’t help but inquire after him.

Zayn twirls around, the cigarette droops between his slackened lips.

“Oh, you found that out?”

“Will I get an invite?”

“Then it wouldn’t be a secret, would it?” Zayn says.

“True.” Harry scratched his head. “Good thing you’ve got snacks with you.”

Zayn looks bemused so Harry points at the wine glass Zayn has placed a few pieces of fish in. He looks at it like he’s just realized holding it.

“Oh, right. Good thing,” he says awkwardly, looking like he’s about to bolt.

“Hey,” Harry says softly. “Ramadan Mubarak.”

Harry can’t help giving Zayn a faint smile and swears he receives one in return before Zayn retreats to the shadows, smoke of a snuffed-out cigarette curling in the serene air. How curious, thought Harry.

He picks up the still warm butt, meaning to dispose it to a bin inside the house. Raising his gaze from the ground, smiling gently to himself, Harry sees something he believes will make him even happier: Louis’ curtains are only half shut.

It feels like a metaphor for their developing relationship and Harry takes it as such.

 

 

DAY THREE

Friday

 

For reasons so far unknown, whenever Ben Winston drops by to oversee the production around one o’clock, his new, favourite pastime is to invite Harry for tea at the producer’s quarters-turned-into-office. Often, he has guests with him, usually representative or other from ITV. And although Harry doesn’t know them, and the following introductions take most of their half an hour’s leisure, Winston seems more than happy to have Harry talk to them—in fact, he encourages it. If this happens more often when it was a woman, Harry pays it no mind.

“He’s flashing you about like his prized ox,” was what Niall said about it after Harry came downstairs from his second invite to the exclusive third floor.

“I would rather not get on his bad side,” Harry defended. “We could all use having him happy.”

“Why is it _your_ job to take one for the team? One of the connections of his is an editor of The Sun. I don’t like how he looks. It’s like he knows he can write dirt and get away with it.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he stayed silent.

The third time after he’s invited, he finds the boys playing table tennis in the main floor (having found extra time due to a traffic-bound delivery of set materials). Harry stays there in the shadows for a minute or two; he feels ghostly disconnected watching them.

Then he spies his reflection in a mirror and sees the look of a caged animal there, and he can’t look at it. The sounds of their good time follow Harry to the garden.

When he looks upon the sloping grounds at the back yard where they played football, dark forebodings creep up on Harry. Which one actually gains more from this show, Harry or its makers? Then, he gets scared the thoughts keep multiplying by his trying to master his own fear and attempts to direct them to another channel.

He finds himself attacking his stuffed phone memory.

It takes an hour to delete the useless downloads, store the good ones in cloud files where he could find them easily, and only keeping the pictures he sees himself using as his background or simply needing them quickly accessible in his memory card. This leaves a sizable number of photos of his mother and sister dating back the last seven months.

Then his thumb freezes over a picture. It’s from Harry’s birthday: he tried to catch his mother unawares but was caught at last second before the shutter. Anne’s got her usual expression of surprise on her face; the one that means she’s lifting her browns to straighten the crow’s feet around her eyes.

“Mum,” Harry says at her, thumb brushing over her features. The window closes, a new one opens, and a call connects before he realizes what’s been done.

“Hi, love?” says his mother’s voice. “How’s East Sussex?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought.

After something trivial about weather getting warmer, Harry reveals to his mother that he has finally opened up to somebody and now feels silly that there’s ever been stiffness between them. Still, he would rather not talk about _him_. He doesn’t say that, though; it’s true, but he feels heartless wording it.

“I’m so happy that you have confided to this Louis fellow,” Anne says warmly when Harry’s done explaining the first two days of filming.

She says it like the friendship is more comforting than what its result is. In fact, Harry’s guilt isn’t lessened at all hearing that she is _glad_ Harry has started to talk about Robin, and is _happy_ Harry understands there’s no need for guilt. Her selflessness is disarming.

“Harry?”

Harry comes to in the middle of the garden, clutching to a fence for support with his phone squeezed inside his fist. It’s several moments before he realizes it’s Louis who has spoken, having followed him there.

“Harry, come back in the house,” he pleads. Then, “Are you alright? Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure.” Shakily.

The shock of working things out with his mother in under five minutes long call hangs over him for an hour while he returns inside where a chaos has landed: Zayn has slipped away again, the minibus that is supposed to take them to Liam’s chosen activity is finally idling out front. Harry gets appointed as search-help and, coming up empty-handed, turns around the corner after the stairs into the main room before he senses the metaphorical icicles in the air.

Whatever’s been going on, verbal or non-verbal, ceases when the occupants in the room notice his presence. Harry stops with raised brows.

“What’s happening here?”

Winston and Louis break off their stare down, both sinking back to their seats. The air doesn’t clear a bit.

“Louis has misplaced some of his belongings. How careless of him. Tidiness requires a level of organizing some people,” Winston’s eyes flit to Louis, “don’t have.”

If Harry hadn’t seen his lips move, he couldn’t have believed his ears. As it is, Louis (seemingly not impressed by how Harry was invited into this argument) clenches his jaw and darts a glance at Harry, who remains rather unimpressed as well. Perhaps Winston seeks to injure Louis in Harry’s opinion, or to remind the former of his quickly growing reputation of being the messiest.

Harry thinks he shouldn’t hold his breath, and says, voice raising ominously, “I’m sorry?”

“It’s fine, Harry.”

Harry quiets in an instant.

“With no evidence pointing otherwise,” continues Louis, “I’ll just have to imagine the shirt walked off by itself.”

The remaining grain of defiance inside Harry has him step pointedly away when Winston stands up.

“Maybe it was a ghost?” Winston suggests as he’s making his leave.

“Yes, a very illiberal one.” Icy cool.

Harry looks from one man to another: he likes the noise of a fight; he’s always been loud in anger and doesn’t understand these two squaring up to each other. After grappling with his thoughts to find one that expresses his sudden need to shower Louis with his support, he says, “I could help searching.”

“No, love. It is what it is; gone. I think the paranormal activity here is particularly fond of shirts with a specific meteorological phenomenon.”

Harry feels helpless and chastised—like he’s just done something bad when trying to do good—when Winston and Louis finally vanish to opposite directions. _Illiberal._ Said with such emphasis. Slowly Harry realizes the horrifying truth of the identity of the shouting jerk next door. _Winston the Archaic Jerk._

It seems the man has shown his true spirit, his most horrifying form to Louis only—and Louis is determined not to accept help.

 

***

 

The minibus takes them to the sea, thirty-minute drive away. Harry is pleased to get out of the manor but that’s before he sees the surfboards set up diagonally along the beach. Barricades have closed in about 400 yards of shoreline, and the crew shouts them to quit fooling around since it’s all going straight to tape or they’ll run out of time. It is their biggest set up with dolly tracks and cranes.

“You know,” Harry says as he gets his first glance of the grey sea after exiting the bus, “I’m not an expert but I was under the impression waves were an integral part of surfing.”

“There’s never been an injury on the set of this show. I think they’d like to keep it that way. I also think, augh, the crew got my size wrong—do these even _have_ sizes?”

Niall is fighting on his wetsuit Liam gave around. There’s a red mark on his forehead where he whacked himself trying to pull the fabric over his thighs. Harry’s own is hanging limply from his fist; stiff and cool against his sweating palm.

“But how do you surf without big waves?” Harry insists.

“It’s years before you’d be good enough to be allowed to ride them,” Niall reasons. “Letting you free out there would be bad insurance policy.”

Harry scowls. “What about Zayn? He can’t swim, can he?”

“Zayn doesn’t have unrealistic ideas about his own proves.”

“The company has nothing to worry about as long as Baywatch is over there,” Harry says, looking at their already dressed teachers.

Liam is zipping up Zayn’s suit, a board at his feet that he offers to a slightly green Zayn; at their feet, Louis is in a deep squat, tying its leash to Zayn’s ankle.

“It’s Louis they’re wary about, mate. He could talk an ox into doing his bidding, let alone popstars with a crush.”

Harry pretends he doesn’t hear it. Beside Niall’s multicoloured board, there is a green one waiting for Harry that towers three feet over his head. He’s gonna kill somebody with that, isn’t he? And he’s pretty sure it’s gonna be Harry himself.

A moment later, Liam gets Niall and Harry tied as well, boards propped against their hips. Harry gives his foot a searching tug: the leash’s got a lot of slack he could trip on.

Liam, who’s got his hands on his waist, inhales deep.

“Ah, I can smell the sea. The salt, the wind, the—”

“Fish?” Harry finishes and shares an unconscious, knowing look with the camera.

“Last one in the water gets first turn tonight,” cries Liam, and he ran, sand slapping wetly, into the sea.

“After you,” says Niall, grinning, so Harry dragged his feet to the shoreline first.

Sure enough, they don’t ride waves that day. After a quick dip in the water (more for the aesthetic than any actual purpose) they drag their boards back on land where they are taught how to stand up right (which is easier said than done), and how to do it quicker and quicker. Once that’s in the bag, they get in the water anew to put their skills in practise. Louis and Liam wade through waist-deep water to each of them, catching their boards when they topple.

Harry is sure he has drunk a gallon of seawater through his nose.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” he coughs for the nth time, floating his board further from the rocks it’s careening towards—but stumbles on an underwater rock the size of his fist. He eats saltwater and blushes as a wrist with a loose rope interrupts his glower at the water-warped view of his bony feet.

“You all right?”

“Peachy. Always good to be humbled a notch,” Harry says but feels so mortified about the situation that his tone doesn’t quite come off as casual as he wishes.

Louis helps him up as Harry asks, “Niall and Zayn doing alright?”

“As well as they can for first-timers.”

“But they are not—falling down on their feet?” Harry says awkwardly.

“No.” There’s that smile of suppressed laughter again—like on the first day at the dock—but the eyes are not gleeful. “Zayn refuses to go further than knee-deep, though.”

Harry doesn’t understand. He feels clumsy and big, as if he was too big for his body; he also feels the beginnings of shame. Why does he always stumble, when no one else does?

Liam has come back. He pauses in his wading through the water, and says with a significant pout, “I’m a good teacher, you know…”

Harry clambers swiftly back on his board and to his great surprise, stays on it while Louis takes his leave. Harry is left watching the way the suit crinkles at his every step.

“Good show,” Liam is saying when Harry tears his eyes away. “I especially like how it allows close encounters with fun games, music,” Liam glances at Harry sideways, “the music makers.”

Harry deflates.

“Niall told you?”

“He didn’t need to.”

Liam is standing at his left side, holding Harry’s board still. Harry tilts his head up at him.

“What are you saying?”

“Just the way you are looking at him. Then you two went and disappeared, only to came back from the garden together this morning.”

“I had to make a phone call,” Harry says quickly. “We weren’t meeting there, we just met there.”

“Is that a euphemism?”

“I was gone for ten minutes,” Harry says, off-handed. “If you think I got something done, you severely insult my stamina.”

Liam grins and takes Harry’s board further into the sea.

“You should do something about it, though,” Liam advices. “The speed at which things are currently going, it will be Christmas before either of you think, right, well, I’d better snog him before someone else does.”

Harry mouths wordlessly at Liam, who bends down to retie the least just to have something to do with his hands.

“We just met,” Harry stammers.

“So you said. You’d better make a move pretty soon after the show, though. Make sure you’re not too late. I know you’d hate to share.”

“There’s nothing _to_ share.”

But maybe there is. Didn’t Harry intentionally tell as little about Louis as he could to his mother. _This Louis fellow,_ she said. No surname. He really kept it vague, didn’t he…?

Liam shoots him a meaningful look.

“Here,” calls a voice. “Come closer or you’ll drift out of our wide frame.”

The owner of the voice is half thigh-deep in the sea, waving Liam and Harry over. The cameras are way over at Louis and Niall, who isn’t doing much better under Louis’ guidance. Harry knows Niall’s knee sometimes hurts in cold water. He hopes he’s okay.

“After the show,” he promises to Liam, who claps his shoulder. The world rocks because Liam is no longer holding his board and is instead using his arms to welcome Zayn in, who has finally abandoned his safe place in the shoal. It’s the time to change teachers.

But the closer to their deadline they come, the more distracted they get: people have gathered behind the fences and the more there is, the louder they are. Some have searched for an opening past the barricades and found it where its edge meets the pier. The concrete structure is full of people, and the wind carries their voices all the way to them.

_“Harry!”_

_“Whooooo, Limaaa!”_

Harry won’t be surprised if a terribly zoomed picture of his fall hits Twitter by evening.

He paddles with his feet to Louis who is belly down on his board and no sooner has harry mimicked it than Louis’ looking at him with narrowed eyes. Harry doesn’t know what Louis’ got in store for him until when he’s reached him, and Louis puts a finger to hip lips.

His eyes are on Liam’s afloat board, bobbing up and down a bare ten feet off them.

Harry hesitates, stalling to see if Louis would have a change of heart; Harry knows what Louis is up to and hopes he would leave it be, but without avail. They walk what feels like the rockiest way to the shore, shooting looks back at Liam. Harry has to take the long way around a slimy, alga-covered boulder which Louis leaped across, mindless of any sharp rocks on its other side.

Couple minutes later, Harry’s fingers are flushed red and freezing, and Louis has got an imprint of his own sand-covered palm on his cheek when Liam confronts them about his missing property.

“Never seen it, no. Was it pink? I kinda forgot what with how much time you spent off it. Maybe it took off?”

Harry giggles.

“Harry, work with me. We could have had him believe it was washed away by the sea.”

 _“What_ —then, where is it?”

“Dunno…seagulls, mate, they steal anything.”

Harry is laughing again and isn’t sure if he’s going to stop.

“It was a brand-new board, _mate_. So best you ‘suddenly’ find it quick,” Liam says in a stern tone, staring down Harry as though saying, _Just because you’re crushing on him, you shouldn’t see to his every wish._

Liam eyes the disrupted sand under them for the last time and leaves.

“Ugh…it's like, I have a conversation with him, and I can just feel the fun draining from my life,” Louis says, grinning and searches for approval in Harry’s face.

Harry feels guilty, though, hoping the grains of sand haven’t scratched all Liam’s carnauba wax off. Louis’ face falls. They start digging it up, Harry’s hands freezing renew. Neither of them says a word. Louis catches Harry’s brief looks, though, and the forlorn look leaves his face.

Harry’s sense of guilt wavers.

But not enough not to return the board with loads of apologies for the ruined wax. Liam just looks glad Harry is still his normal self and isn’t going to become the Bonnie to Louis’ Clyde.

“At this point you’re just enabling his bad behaviour—yes you are! This morning he threw a spoon at our heads and you _handed it back to him.”_

Harry sees nothing wrong with a bit of chivalry.

Their trip ends right on time before sunset, the ride back is spent in the remaining, quickly diminishing daylight, and when they pile out of the minibus right into supper table, stomachs rumbling louder than the sea, it’s pitch black.

“Get in, Tommo. I’m starving,” says Niall.

Harry watches Louis finish his checking his reflection from the night-darkened windows of the room and sit down.

Although the kitchen must have done it’s best, they hardly taste anything, given how fast they’re inhaling their plates. Then, at long last, Harry gets to swing the strap of his new guitar around his neck.

It is better than he dreamed. The instrument is light, well-proportioned in his hands; its sound is warm and every note rings right. It helps him to keep his hands busy and his eyes open, and suddenly he has all this time to study the expressions on the table under the atmosphere of a much happier song.

Louis is standing up with the boys, a glass raised in salute, smiling when he notices Harry looking. His hair has dried into a feathery fringe and Harry really likes the look on him. So much he can’t tear his eyes away, not when Louis flashes him a rare crinkled smile at one of the—may Harry say it—most ingenious melodic choices he made. And even when Liam meets him half-way to give his compliments on the performance, Harry’s eyes shoot over his shoulder to the man whose validation he suddenly hungers for.

He’s given it.

It is their best night so far; the boys and the band perform their best faultlessly, hit every note, and by the time Niall’s performance is over, even the crew has no criticism to make, which, as Trevor the Producer points out, is a first in the show’s history.

 

 

DAY FOUR

Saturday

 

It is nearing one o’clock when Niall and he are queueing for the same bathroom. Niall is still wearing an expression of extasy for having held Harry’s guitar just moments ago. He’s been gushing about the quality of the wood for the past ten minutes.

“I’m so tired.” Niall yawns impressively. “The royalties from our compilation album are the only thing to keep me from collapsing on this carpeted corridor right now.”

“Don’t expect too much from any of my songs ya cover. My record company will be sure to take good care of securing themselves a large percentage.”

“Tell Azoff to go gently on the invalid, eh?” Niall said, chuckling. “And goodnight.”

Harry echoes the wish, stepping into his room, but freezes at the foot of his bed. His curtains are open, and he can see a figure in the balcony. Smoke is curling up and then blown away by the light breeze, a wrist coming gently to rest on the railing.

It’s not a cigarette, Harry realizes as he steps outside where the grounds have finally fallen silent. He hasn’t been on the balcony much, mainly because the view doesn’t open to the lake but is towards the rooftops of houses, just high enough to be seen above the tree line.

“Hi,” says Louis.

“Hey. Bad luck with rooms, huh?” There’s a van in the gravel yard, shining under the streetlight, its driver asleep somewhere above them on the third floor restricted for production team. “Not much of a view from here.”

“I like to people watch.” Louis’ voice is scratchy from use and lack of sleep. “Looking at the buzz of the city, there’s always something more going on than just sparkling water and rustling greenery.”

Harry steps closer to the rust-riddled iron rail inside the ivy; the kitchens are right under them, somehow still pushing out hot air as thought it’s breathing. Harry shivers.

Louis steps away from the edge of the balcony.

“I’m gonna drop by the kitchens. I think I need another cuppa before bed.”

It takes Harry a second to realize he is holding his breath in anticipation for an invitation, which comes before he can beat himself over it. Being the chef’s favourite has been prosperous for Louis since he knows a shortcut to the basement which doesn’t look like the lair of the evil spirit Harry made it out to be in his mind. Greenish walls, stainless steel, lots of ducts overhead, constant humming.

“There’s always a lot of leftover food. I think they make some extra in case Zayn comes down to grab a bite before sunrise.”

Louis picks an apple, which he polishes against his shirt, and a fresh roll from a tray the cooks left to cool for the morning. They rip into it and find the centre still warm.

“How late do you reckon they stay and cook?” Harry asks Louis, frowning. “Do all the cooks get to sleep here as well?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was a ghost.”

Louis starts making a voice so weird it takes Harry a half minute of looking around wildly to realize it’s coming out of his companion’s throat, and only when the noise starts to shake with his repressed laughter.

“You prick!” He swings at him randomly in the dark. “I could have had a stroke.”

Louis looks unrepentant.

“You know what,” he says, “I’m still a bit too keyed up from adrenaline to lay down just yet, so…want to take a walk with me? If you aren’t too tired…”

As a matter of fact, Harry is. He is running on so many late nights and early mornings he hardly feels any lingering rush from tonight; his back hurts, the garden has gone cold and wet and Harry fancies staying warm. But Louis is smiling expectantly at him and his feeble ‘maybe another night’ trails away into nothingness.

“Sure,” he hears himself say instead and pinches his lip between his thumb and forefinger, thinking of the new security measures. “Aren’t there cameras?”

“Not around the cellar door, mate.”

Harry has half a mind to ask how he knows that but swallows the question down while Louis grabs two flash lights for them, and so they take off.

Down on the ground the mist is so thick it feels like a curtain hitting Harry’s face. Louis has pushed his hands so deep inside pockets that their weight pushes the joggers tight against the curves of his bottom. His cheeks are flushed, and the tip of his fringe curls around the lobe of his ear.

Once a green tunnel to another universe, the driveway now looks menacing. Gravel crackling, illuminated by two pools of light, Harry walks with Louis all the way to the start of it where a red-and-yellow tape and a traffic pylon declare the grounds out of bounds due to a private event.

“Funny,” says Louis, who is shining his light at their surroundings. “I almost expected someone to be camping here,”

Despite that Louis likely didn’t meant to remind Harry of how someone probably _did_ camp there once, Harry is suddenly busy looking at the two holes and a couple of square stones left where an impressive wrought-iron gates must have once been.

“Sorry,” Louis says quickly. “Scary isn’t it?”

“I’m not scared of the dark,” replies Harry, but it rings rather false even in his ears.

However, none of the scenery gives him quite the same fright as when they eventually walk back to the manor and a jumping ball of light in the distance freezes their steps in the middle of the yard. It’s the worst thing they could have stumbled upon on the grounds—a guard.

Louis’ arm hits Harry in the chest as he rushes to halt them both. “Shit!”

Exhibiting a great presence of mind for so late an hour, Louis reaches further to shut Harry’s light off where it’s squeezed inside Harry’s terror-frozen grip.

“If we’re lucky, this is just a round.”

 _“Lucky?”_ Harry squeaks. “You mean there is a possibility we could’ve been seen in a camera after all?”

“Shh!” is all Louis says and tugs him along into a half-crouched run.

They scurry into the shadow of the building, where there’s an open door, which to Harry, is pretty spooky but Louis tells him it’s just the boiler room and they are trying to air out a leak. The floor is damp, as Louis said. Harry bites back a scream as a generator groans to life as someone above them turns on a tap.

“It’s so warm,” Harry says as they move further from the door into the back where the noise gets louder. Louis toes what looks like a cigarette butt in the pool of light.

“You know what, I think Zayn comes here to hide from us.”

“What?” Harry looks around. It does not look pleasant at all … Louis’ thoughts follow a similar pattern.

“Poor Zayn…forced to promo so soon after the fiasco with the car, being the first Muslim on here. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was very content to lock himself in here,” Louis says and points to the door. “The doorway’s too small for a camera to fit in.”

“Huh.”

Louis stands quietly in thought next to him, until, “Do you think Zayn may have…as a revenge to the show…caused the leak?”

They watch each other over the suddenly blindingly bright face of the flash light that casts half their faces in shadows and then laugh it tersely off and shake their heads in, _Nah, we’re just dead tired._

“These are all practically antique. I expect they’re under a lot of strain from all of us,” Louis reasons.

“It’s not kind to waste water.”

Harry is slurring. The warmth is making him drowsy.

“No, it isn’t,” Louis humours him.

“It casts nice shadows.”

“What does?”

“The moon. Waves are nice, too.”

Louis, amused, asks, “Moon makes those, too?”

“No, the wind.” Harry pouts. “You’re not paying attention.”

“You should definitely go to sleep, Harry. I shouldn’t have dragged you here with me.”

Harry doesn’t get to ask if he means the boiler room or the whole walk. Leaving him to mercy of the night guard seems too cruel of him, though, Harry thinks. But so does not inviting him at all—hurts actually, deep inside him, and Harry frowns at it.

Outside the wind is picking up. A strong storm is coming, an early June heatwave in its wake, and the first gusts of it move the door they left ajar eerily.

“You know,” Louis says as he watched it creak a second time, “we should get back before they lock the doors or something—”

_“Meow.”_

“That’s a cat,” Harry says rather hysterically.

Louis points the flashlight at it, and its eyes gleam like two light bulbs on orange fur. The cat lets out an inquiring _bwur_ as it slinks inside, escaping from their pool of light and startles them as it brushes against their legs. The cat now looks rather disappointed at what it’s found in its territory, though, and trots out of the door, tail held high.

“You think it’s gonna report back to the guard,” Harry mumbles. “You know, like in Harry Potter. That would make her Mrs. Norris.”

“Better not take any chances.”

Louis guides him to his room after they figure the guard’s round has taken him to the other side of the house. They are unsure if there are more of them, so they move as swiftly as they can, though not inconspicuously. Sleepiness is making Harry clumsy and he keeps knocking at thresholds and stairs with his big, lead-weight feet. Finally, at his room, Harry unhitches himself from Louis’ side and stumbles towards the foot of his bed, fingers dancing on his scarf.

His alarm clock blinks brightly 1:59am in brightness that makes the behind of his left eye throb painfully.

Which is why he is so startles when Louis is suddenly right at his side again once Harry’s blinked the image of the numbers off his retinas.

“Lou—?”

Suddenly Louis’ fingers are reaching at his neck—to his scarf. Tug, over, pull through.  Harry’s throat clicks at the motions, but there’s nothing in his mouth to swallow, only air. Louis’ forearms brush lightly against Harry’s chest with each movement. He hopes Louis won’t notice his nipples tenting the flimsy material.

“There.” Louis’ voice is rather throaty. He then tries for a more humorous approach, “I guess the rest you can take off yourself. Goodnight.”

He retreats, pulls the door closed in his wake. Maybe it’s the dark but his cheeks seem more coloured than just flushed from the night air.

“G’nite.” Late and faint.

Harry falls forward, shucks the itchy sequined shirt off before mumbling, “If any ghosts are listening, do not wake me for anything less than life-threatening, and even then, wait half an hour,” and giggles at his own joke before passing out half-dressed on top of the covers.

 

***

 

On the morning of fourth day, the storm hits them hard. Harry’s quite literally shaken from his sleep when lightning strikes the bedrock not three hundred yards from them across the lake. It fries several equipment left plugged in, and production assistants are seen red-faced as they run around, driven on by the shouting they got from the executives.

Liam is seen jumping up the walls since his exercising grounds have been turned into a mud track by the showers in-between the rumbling.  Forced indoors, he runs laps around the main hall, the pounding of his feet against the old support beams waking up the rest of the guests. Sleepy-eyed Niall gets invited to join along with Harry but neither could stomach it right now.

At ten o’clock when the remnants of the storm blur the landscape grey, the company welcomes ten radio competition winners to attend a special behind-the-scenes look at the manor. (No one says it’s to stop further break ins, but it absolutely is to quench the fans’ thirst.) They’re taken to the main floor where they’re given a signed polaroid with the boys, and a fifteen-minute-long Q&A with Winston (which they look less than thrilled about).

“Shame for the bad weather,” Winston says later. “Some road must be closed because of storm debris. The girls positively fled after our meeting to get home in time.”

“Imagine that,” says Niall drily under his breath.

Harry’s day will be the last. According to Louis, who has a good eye for those sorts of things, this is bad news for him since he won’t have any more music to release on the day it airs. Harry therefore increases the hours spent composing to eight a day. This means that between the constant changing of clothes, interviews, rehearsals and making music (which in itself is more draining than others combined) Harry is left with only five hours of sleep.

Even so, the only one busier than Harry is Louis. Seen humming in the yard or drumming air absently while walking down the upstairs corridor, he still finds the time to talk to all.

“How does he do it?” Harry mutters to Niall as they sit cross-legged on their Wellingtons, painting with spray cans. Niall looks up to where Louis is making last retouches to his smiley face with the x’s for eyes.

“Do what?”

“Look so alive without sleeping. Liam told me he saw Louis awake at six in the morning.”

That sounds like he’s been keeping tabs on him which he obviously has not.

“I know he didn’t go to bed until two,” he corrects himself which sounds even worse.

Niall, who doesn’t know about their nightly adventure, lowers his spray. “Are you spying on him?”

Harry very nearly face-palms himself, instead shooting Niall a look of contempt.

“Just checking.” Niall raises his hands in a placating gesture. “Maybe he’s got more to prove than any of us. Can’t be easy when Trevor’s got it in for him,” suggests Niall who doesn’t elaborate because he’s busy again, spraying the map of Ireland on his piece of plywood.

Harry frowns. “What do you mean by that?”

“The producer? I saw them exchanging words this morning, if you know what I mean.”

“What was it about?” Harry insists, which Niall doesn’t seem to appreciate.

“I don’t know. Unlike you, I keep my nose out of things that are not my business.” Then, he relents with, “But I think it had something to do with inviting Louis’ team here.”

“On the set?” That sounded serious. Harry can’t unsee Louis’ argument with Winston from his mind. Was this the sequel? Was Louis in trouble? Is that why he can’t sleep?

“You okay, though?” Niall’s voice disrupts Harry’s panic. “You’re looking a bit pale.”

“There’s just not enough time to sleep here. It’s making my head pound,” Harry lies quickly. “I think it’s this spray.”

As he says it, Zayn is seen crossing the gravel. “Do you need a mask?”

“Huh? No!” says Harry, nearly jumping up. The idea of what Louis might see if he has to wear a medical mask-looking filtering system, whose rubber bands would leave red marks on his cheekbones, is torture.

He is saved by Liam complaining about his uneven spray, and Zayn goes to adjust his spraying distance, until he takes the whole can and does it himself. He looks strangely sheepish about it, as if he feels bad about showing off his own talent to Liam’s crinkly-eyed, smiling face.

“Ya sure you’re feeling well?”

“I’m _fine,_ Niall.”

“I’m sure Louis would like to see ya take care of yourself.”

“It’s got nothing to do with Louis,” Harry says with dignity.

“Yeah, right.”

 _“Listen to me,”_ says Harry almost shouting because Niall is smirking now, and this reminds him too much of what Liam told him yesterday. “Just stop, all right. I don’t know what Liam and you are up to with all this match-making—I’ve heard you just fine both times, I just don’t think, in the middle of this show, is the best timing—”

“Why not?” Niall tells him bracingly.

“I-I’m too busy and, and if we did, there’s still the tour starting in December. What if we didn’t work, what if it just feels convenient now because we live in close quarters and there’s only five of us—oh, you know what I mean. Are you saying you’d rather have us tiptoeing as exes than pining— _stop laughing!”_

Suddenly it’s very quiet. Harry becomes aware he’s thrown his spray can to the ground. He doesn’t remember holding it. Niall’s smile has vanished.

“Harry,” he says softly, “are you sure the stress isn’t getting to you or something?”

Harry lets the silence speak for himself and allows the team to usher him onto the less stressful side of the cameras, where they sit him down and brush powder gently onto his face. He doesn’t meet any of their gazes but knows they pity him; the first one to crack this season.

To make matters worse, when Harry later goes to the rehearsal in the Entertainment Room and gives the band his sheets of notes, Louis is just leaving his. _Why not_ fresh in mind, he asks Louis—who appears to be actively avoiding his eyes—to eat lunch with him, but Louis turns him down, claiming he had music to do.

Music which he had already finished? Right.

Louis doesn’t come to eat lunch, nor does Harry see him anywhere near the common floors. And once Harry finally sees him, Louis makes as though to sit on the couch, sees Harry sitting there and immediately veers left to the stairs. Harry sees it all without looking at him as though Louis has opened a secret third eye in Harry that now vexes him with Louis’ apparent disinterest. Like a sore tooth he can’t help but prod.

Prodding is also what the crew is good at: trying to squeeze details out of him for an interview, camera and lights directing at him, blinding him. When Harry stays short-worded, they press insistently for more.

“So,” they keep fishing, “the choice of this song. Was it because you felt personally connected to its message?”

“No,” says Harry, whose patience is running thin, “it’s because my favourite song was given to Liam to perform and this is the second-best option, but I can’t let the audience know that, can I?”

There’s a stunned silence. They don’t know what to do with the situation; likely no one has ever just outright stopped playing along,

“That’s gonna have to come off,” says one.

“Yes, it has,” says the other.

“Yeah,” says Harry, standing up and ripping the mic off his collar. He hands it over awkwardly, other end still attached to the box at the small of his back. “I would hate to ruin the appearance of this happy-go-lucky summer camp.”

To cap it all, not half an hour after his stunt, a runner who looks to be barely out of college comes to him with such a sombre expression Harry thinks someone has died.

“Office,” she says, “Winston wants to have a word.”

So Harry follows her, boots squelching, and on the way, finds Niall in front of his own set of cameras, giving him a quizzical look. Harry gestures to the second floor.

“Dead man walking,” Niall sums up.

Niall stares as the runner ushers Harry away from the busy floors; he accompanies her across the main floor, up four flights of stairs and along the second-floor corridor.

Once they are inside the office, a small room with a separate bedroom accessed through closed double doors, Winston stands up from behind his desk and motions Harry to sit on a leather chair. They settle, and Winston starts talking abruptly.

“Do you have a problem with the way this show is run?”

“No, I—”

“—think following the rules for everyone to do, not you personally?”

“But—”

“Do I need to find a copy of the T&C to remind you what you signed up for?”

Before Harry can reply, Winston bends down to open a drawer. For a nasty moment, Harry thinks Winston’s actually having him go through the clauses again, but it’s only to set a tin containing tea leaves between them. It’s nearing one o’clock; Harry has hardly realized the time.

“So—” Winston starts but gets side-tracked, having trouble closing the drawer which gets repeatedly jammed, “…so, next time, they ask you to specify your relationship with a song, you…?”

“Will comply.”

Winston smiles a small smile, picking Scotch tape off the tin. Harry bites his lip.

“It’s just that…”

The smile slides sharply off Winston’s face as his brows settle into a one long, severe line.

“You’re a stylish person, Harry,” he says in a brave attempt of his usual pompous style. “Can’t we end this stylishly?”

“I thought I’d have a say in what I talk about and when, what I sing about and when. I didn’t realize I would be asked to surrender my right to choose,” Harry tells him but sees with no small indignation that the words have no effect on Winston. On the contrary, he looks at Harry with a smile of incredulity.

“Sometimes it’s not just about the five stars around a supper table, it’s about the people in this country who watch this program, Harry,” he says familiarly. “There is no market for song facts. People want stories, to receive some new aspect of your life to admire. Don’t you want to be popular?”

Harry doesn’t answer at once. He pretends to be straightening his sock that keeps getting eaten by his loafers, because he doesn’t want to reveal what is on his mind.

He has given the matter a a great deal of thought over these last days of exhaustion. Sometimes it seems a sweet deal, to do this with friends for a rebranding; but at others, he finds himself doubting its effect—found himself wondering if he’s been cheated. He knows the show couldn’t ever afford an international-level artist because they won’t have the rights to play its covers on tours outside UK. Yet here he is. How?

“I’m not trying to revolutionize the concept of showbiz,” says Harry once he can’t pretend his sock is crooked. “I’m only saying I won’t act someone I’m not.”

“Which is a great fault when the industry is built on visions and dreams of a more glamorous life. You exist to sell yourselves.”

“And,” Harry asks a little more forcefully than he intended, “you believe gay to be somehow fundamentally less ‘glamorous’?”

Winston raises from his chair, fists placed against the desk and leaning his body on them so that a few knuckles crack in the ringing silence; Harry’s never seen him so agitated.

“Let’s not drag politics into this, this is a commercial television show. If you wanted to make a difference you should have gone on some _hippy_ , young show that engages with the younger generation that embraces this kind of thing.”

Unless Harry’s eyes are deceiving him, Winston is suddenly looking awkward.

“We do have to take into account the present climate…within our largest age groups… Would you take your complaints to them? Tell them what to watch?”

“No,” says Harry who doesn’t want to point out that when he voiced his displeasure, it was at Winston’s instigation.

“Then what’s the fuss about?” Winston says airily. “Tea?”

Harry startles; he has not thought he would still be welcomed. Winston’s patient smile appears hungry for the first time as he waits for Harry’s reply.

“Sorry,” he says stiffly, “I’m kind of booked right now.”

“Suit yourself.” Winston steps away from the desk and Harry is about to take off when the man stops him. “Harry, before you go… Trevor meant to give you the outline of what we’ll expect from your big day tomorrow. Just the general idea and topics—look them over before bed.”

Winston disappears through the double oak doors to the producer’s bedroom. Harry sways on his feet, admiring the antique desk’s high polish. His eyes dart downwards and what he sees makes his stomach contract. There was a piece of fabric protruding from a drawer and it’s grey with thin yellow, red, blue and green stripes, like a primary-coloured rainbow.

Harry shoots a glance at the ajar door.

When the tea party arrives, Harry passes them at the door with profuse apologies, big words distracting them from noticing an extra bulk to his stomach he is hiding behind the papers titled Shoot Day 5 which Winston gave him.

In the yard filming continues like nothing has happened.

Harry spies Louis quickly: he’s brought a mobile synthesizer with him and set up an office of his own under a chestnut tree where there is a wooden garden bench. Under its thick, lush branches, the ground is almost dry, and a fallen branch cracks under Harry’s foot as he approaches. Louis doesn’t look up at the noise.

“Looks like you’re a trebled man,” Harry says. “Get it?”

“Yeah, I got it.” Distracted.

Harry is far too keyed up to be discouraged. “Can I sit here?”

“I guess,” says Louis who pushes away a great pile of wrinkled paper. Harry looks around at the scraps of lyrics covering the keys, at the closest that still has eraser marks on it, at the even messier one with just notes written. Louis grabs it away.

“Tried to make a melody before lyrics.” The cheek turned to him pinks. “You shouldn’t see these anyway. The covers are supposed to be a secret.”

“How are you managing all this stuff—I mean, you go through all this additional trouble with different instruments…”

“Oh, well—you know—working hard.”

Up close, past all the loud, loud, loud, Louis doesn’t look so fresh after all.

“Can’t you just let the band play them?” asks Harry curiously. “They’re good.”

“No,” Louis says at once, as if the idea is ludicrous. “I need to make it myself. I know one of my strengths is my ability to…emote. If I make it all by myself, I can give the rendition all I’ve got. I don’t want the sentiment to feel empty, that would mean I failed my job as an artist.”

“Fail, you?” Harry goggles at Louis. “You’ve already spoiled us for choice.”

“Don’t compromise my integrity, Styles,” Louis chastens, though the pink has returned to his cheeks. “I want to be chosen for as many duets as the can give because I was that good.”

If he’s chosen for two, there’s a fifty percent change one will be with Harry. This has not even occurred to Harry as a possibility. While he struggles to contain the surge of daydream-like images of the two of them on the stage, Louis speaks up, evidently following his own train of thought.

“Were you just at the tea party?”

“Yeah, though I won’t be going back for a while.”

Louis looks pleased at that. “Good, I don’t think Ben Winston is a good friend to have. Not as a genuine friend, and neither as an industry connection.”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t heard? They were supposed to drop him after last season flopped,” Louis says slowly. “Guess those connections of his actually came through since they got you here and he got to keep his job.”

Winston’s character is suddenly making awful sense. Louis’ wearing an odd expression on his face. Is it pity?

“You think I’m in the wrong show, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

Harry, who meant the question to stay rhetorical, is rather taken aback and lowers his eyes to his lap.

“Sorry,” Louis hastens to say, “that was blunt. I meant no offence, but I believe Irwin Azoff to be—er—a blast from the past.”

Harry almost smiles.

“I’m not insulted. I know I am his last contract before he’s going to peace out. Unfortunately, his son is an apple that fell far from the tree. So, I’m kind of in the market—as soon as we change my image. Speaking of…”

He trails off and returns the bunched-up t-shirt from under his clothing to its proper owner, who looks at it several moments, not realizing what he is seeing. Finally, Louis looks at him (for what feels like the first time today) and says, “You shouldn’t have.”

He doesn’t ask where; he already knows.

“About the show, Harry,” Louis starts abruptly. “This can be played in your favour. I’ve got something planned. You should—”

But exactly what Harry should do, he never finds out. At that precise moment, a staff member waves Harry over for a re-attachment of the mic that he ripped off.

Only, after having to wait a while for the actual audio tech guy to arrive, Harry starts to suspect them of a different motive.

 

***

 

“I’m gonna rewrite the song.”

Liam barely looks up from playing with the cat. He keeps throwing Harry’s crunchie at it. The cat’s keen on getting it between its paws but rather bad at returning it.

“Good luck, mate. There’s only three hours to supper.”

“I don’t need three hours. I’m gonna do it in one.”

“Why not ten minutes,” Liam says sarcastically. “That would _really_ impress me.”

The cat loses interest as it spots a figure in the distance. It sprints to the man, who stops to give the cat a long stroke from its head to the perkily raised tail. It then trots contently with the man to where Harry and Liam are sitting on the stony, front steps of the manor.

“You met Millie,” Zayn says.

“Who?”

Millie the cat meows as though she’s making her own introduction.

“She’s been keepin’ me company since we both like to snack at night,” Zayn says with a crooked smirk. “I’ve been smuggling her some food. She’s the gardener’s cat.”

“I knew you were a girl,” Harry says, pointing a finger at her yawning mouth.

Liam gives Zayn the crunch—now full of tiny holes from sharp incisors—to test if the cat would fetch for him. But true to cat nature, it flops atop the stairs and starts to lick its rear. Harry laughs at them and retreats to his room. He doesn’t emerge for half an hour at which point he comes out bearing two sheets of lyrics for tonight. It is, of course, totally accidental that they hold several metaphors for having to pretend to be someone you are not.

Which is a very easy transition to make since, the way he interpreted it, Zayn’s song is already following a similar mood.

Liam’s still interacting with the cat who has slipped inside the Entertainment Room (where she is not supposed to go) amidst all the rush of preparation. When Harry steps into the room, he’s met with Liam on his hands and knees, trying to get Millie to come out from behind the amplifier with a cooing _kitty, kitty, kitty._

“Lost your new best friend already?” Harry laughs.

“Just making sure she doesn’t get electrocuted,” Liam huffs and straightens. “Speaking of trying to find something, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

Liam glances towards the door to check that the cameras aren’t coming in yet, then leans in closer to Harry.

“Winston’s been trying to find you since dinner, so I’ve been sending him on a wild goose chase couple of times now. He won’t try me a third time, though, so brace yourself. I don’t think he’s going to drop it.”

“It’s alright,” says Harry, who is touched by his friend’s concern. “Louis has got a plan, I don’t think this will be bad news.”

Liam’s prediction comes true within an hour. Shortly before supper, Winston waves him in to the other side of the cameras. Walking across the cords and wires, Harry bites his lip to hide his smile as he thinks about the possible outcomes to this conversation beforehand. Winston’s apologies for stealing Louis’ property is emerging as his favourite as he finally joins Winston in the corner of the room.

“Ah, Mr. Styles. Just the man I wanted to see.”

Although Harry expected a change in tone, he is so disconcerted by the use of his formal name, he forgets he’s supposed to act cold around the man. Winston puts his phone down as he starts.

“I just got off the phone with your management. Mr. Tomlinson’s team has just been here on his request to discuss what has been, ah, _developing_ here, and they’ve come to a mutual conclusion that it would be beneficial—and your Mr. Azoff agrees—for both your images if we concealed your fondness to Mr. Tomlinson.”

Harry’s stomach sinks. _His fondness._ But Louis and he…they had a deal.

Harry digs his memory for the exact words they shared, trying to find a sense to this. Maybe he misunderstood him. Probably Louis was telling Harry about a plan he _wanted_ to be done and Harry took it to mean _Louis_ would execute it himself—

Winston is looking at Harry curiously; Harry swallows tight.

“Right…all right, I’ll do it.”

Winston looks almost surprised how easily he gave up—so does Harry.

At supper, Liam wavers for a second but seats himself on the opposite of Louis, leaving Harry with the chair next to Liam. A look from him tells Harry that Liam has been informed of this new status quo but is perhaps showing Harry his readiness for mutiny.

At the same time, Louis reaches for his glass in a movement so odd it makes Harry for the first time see past his own hurt: poor Louis! Harry observes him self-consciously raising the glass to his lips in such strange, manly carelessness that something cold and unpleasant flips inside his belly.

There is scraping as they ate, and clinks when their glasses hit the plates, but nobody talked. Harry thinks it is half because their host isn’t as likely to chatter as them; and half because one of them is too busy acting straight, and the other afraid he would throw something if he moved.

“I was wondering,” starts Liam after many exasperated prompts from the camera crew, “how does fasting happen with changing time zones, say, on tour.”

Zayn, who seems keen to join the conversation now that he doesn’t need to start it, talks about how it’s harder to fast in ever-changing lengths of daylight, how performing and keeping up that required physical shape whilst fasting could be bad for health and how after recovering from an eating disorder at nineteen, he couldn’t fast for two years in fear of triggering it.

Harry looks from Liam to Zayn. Then he turns to Louis, ready to exchange an amused glance they sometimes share when Liam and Zayn act in a distinctly domestic way, only to realize he isn’t allowed anymore.

 “Right,” says Harry, his mind still on Louis but recovering quickly from the unpleasant surprise of his turn coming so soon in the middle of the night. So, he walks on, hardly aware of the route he is taking for he has treaded the distance so often now that his feet carry him to the stage automatically.

The mic feels cold as Harry’s lips grace it and the cameras bear down upon him; Harry retreats further in his own head, anxiety fogging his brain— _concentrate—_

Louis, for the first time, looks up and smiles at him. A small smile.

A rushing noise fills Harry’s ears— _think_ —the roar now drowns out the instruments— _what’s next…_

With a pang, Harry remembers he would still be a stranger to his mother if it wasn’t for Louis. If that’s something he fixed, why wouldn’t their current situation be in his powers? What if Winston—pompous Ben Winston—is doing exactly what Louis expects? Suddenly Harry recognizes something insubordinate in the angle of Louis’ jaw.

A powerful emotion has risen in Harry’s chest at the observation, a fortified, expectant feeling rather like that which one of Louis’ stronger ballads give him.

They’ve got this.

In the end, the feeling serves as a great advantage to the mood of the performance. No tears are shed that night and there is an air of defiance that’s suddenly thick in their midst. Perhaps the crew can sense it in a way since they let them go early without a fuss, though their quiet night must have left them wanting in terms of dialogue.

At the lone hours of dawn, technically already on Harry’s day, he wakes up with his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth thanks to some liquid stress relief he had at midnight. At that moment, the drinks had certain misery to it he felt drawn to. Now, the payback doesn’t feel worth the numbness.

He swings his feet off the bed, tongue prodding away the cottony feeling. He leaves his door open because the lock is loud when closing and walks to the bathroom.

Which is occupied. There is only one insomniac who stays up this late, and the one Harry doesn’t really want to meet.

But before he can turn around, the lock turns, and Louis steps out into the shadowed hallway and startles at Harry’s dark, hunched figure against the wall. If Harry closed his door, they would be in total darkness. Then Louis’ eyes, which reflect the faint light streaming from outside, drop lower, and Harry realizes he hasn’t got a shirt on.

“Christ, you scared me,” Louis breathes, kneading his chest with a fist. “Is this payment from last night?”

 “Sorry…but I’m not truly sorry at all.”

 Harry notices Louis looks smallest when he is alone, unobserved. He also notices Louis has nicked a cheek when shaving.

 “I guess I deserved that,” says Louis who stops kneading and raises a hand to his cheek to touch the wound. “Couldn’t find my shaving cream.”

“Niall rearranged the shelves,” Harry says. “He’s pedantic like that.”

Louis nods. Harry is thrilled that they can talk about a close friend of Harry’s like all these quirks are shared inside jokes that only the two of them can translate. But there’s something he can’t understand…

“You said you had a plan…?”

Louis seems to become even smaller if possible.

“I did. I did, didn’t I? Doesn’t look like much I admit, but I think that’s the best part of it. The execution of the first stage wasn’t ideal, though, but had to be done. It is what it is. Harry, I’m so sorry…”

Harry is shaking his head as though trying to physically fend off Louis’ unjust guilt. He _tried_ , didn’t he?

“…Used to fight these battles solo, you know?  I could continue making excuses but,” Louis trails off. “You don’t hate me for it?”

“I trust you,” Harry says quickly.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Louis says sharply. He’s face is set. He seems to have taken his own secrecy as a personal insult. “Winston underestimates you, I shouldn’t as well.”

“So the plan is still, what? Going strong? You mean to tell me this— _all of it_ —is going according to your plan?”

“Hook, line and sinker, you could say. First stage was a bargain and they took it”.

“Doesn’t sound like a very good deal on your end.”

Louis has tugged the sleeves of his sweater down so low they cover his knuckles. The action has pulled the collar lower so that a clavicle and its shadow is visible, but Louis doesn’t seem to care.

 “That’s what they thought, which is why they agreed on it so quickly,” Louis says, surveying Harry closely. “I did have an ulterior motive. I knew if I agreed, I could ask for more freedom musically.”

 A silence follows. Distantly, there is a sound of sirens as an ambulance drives past the big road half of a mile away.

“They want my cooperation,” Louis continues, “the fans want my music, and I will give them the best I’ve got because I owe them as much. This way everyone gets what they want.”

“Except you.” Harry’s getting the idea this is a reoccurring pattern.

“It’s close enough. I’m happy when they are happy.”

“And what’s my part in this deal besides trying to…tying to…” he can’t fight off the blush, “act indifferent.”

“Just be yourself.” To Harry’s satisfaction, Louis doesn’t look any more collected. “You’ll find that being Harry Styles comes with surprising amount of licence. Winston’s got a bit of a blind spot where you’re concerned.”

Harry thinks the advice is rather counter-productive compared to what Winston gave, but he is keener on obeying this one. Louis nods, satisfied at having made his point, and makes to turn around, when Harry speaks in a low voice.

“Louis?”

“Hm?”

“Just, a quick question. If I asked you to name all the things—people, places, immaterial things—you loved, how long in the list would you be before you named yourself?”

This time the following silence is only broken by a snore coming from Niall’s room.

 

 

DAY FIVE

Sunday

 

 

Roughly three hours later, Harry is jacked up on painkillers and about a gallon of water to fight off the hangover, ready to receive the package Lambert’s sent to him. Winston, having smelled the change to profit from being sponsored by Amazon, has the crew get a real close look of the logo on the van that drops Harry his new Day Five suit.

“Thanks,” he says to the driver after signing to confirm the package’s been received. The big, heavy box on his arms seems to have gained the notice of the gardener’s cat whose yellow eyes stare unblinkingly at Harry.

As Harry turns to retreat indoors, Millie’s tail swishes in contempt.

 _“My_ box,” Harry says to her.

It’s misty as the ground dries; it rained that night, as though the sky wanted to get rid of last drops of moisture before the heatwave. The air smells fresh, sweetest under the damp chestnut in the garden.

Harry is very happy for finishing his last cover last night, but he is less excited about what follows: twenty-four hours of cameras exclusively directed at him. Especially now that he should ‘conceal his fondness’.

His solution is to get as many hours with Louis as he can steal before the filming starts.

He sneaks upstairs, almost gets caught with his first a half an inch from Louis’ door by Liam, who’s just woken up, and decides to take the sneaky route. He goes to his room, dropping the box on the bed on the way through the room to the balcony and knocks on the glass of Louis’ windows.

There’s faint light coming from beside the bed that frames Louis’ figure which gets sharper at the edges as he closes the distance.

“What are you doing up so early?” he asks Harry once the door’s slid open.

“Want to get out of here while everyone is busy preparing breakfast?” Harry asks Louis, who is sniffing the wafts of summer air in disbelief. “We could slip by without being noticed if we leave now.”

Louis looks down at the driveway where a bakery van full of fresh bread pulls up in front of the manor. Despite the shadows of dawn, there is little place to hide from the traffic.

“We’re not fast enough,” Louis says, licking his lip. “But I got an idea.”

The idea was stealing a bicycle. Harry wrote a quick ‘Sorry for your bike. xx’ on a Post-It and left it where they nicked their ride from Matt, the make-up artist who lives close enough to cycle to work.

“Damn you and your politeness,” Louis says as they mound their bike and Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ waist, the metal rack biting into his buttocks. “We’re gonna be made because of your manners.”

“We’re gonna be made a lot faster than that if you don’t get a move on,” says Harry, anxiously glancing back at the driver climbing into his van. “He’s back. Go, go, go.”

Louis curses. “You’d better ride yourself on the way back, popstar.”

Harry’s laugher shakes the bike all the way to the old wrought-iron gates.

The faint orange of sunrise is colouring the sky by the time they go through a sleepy town square two miles away. Harry’s thighs are cramping from keeping his legs locked, and there’s a bruise forming on his tailbone after a dozen kerbs. Soon, they speed along a twisted, bumpy road where they abandon their bike in a ditch and continue uphill on foot.

A sea of yellow spreads on the hill, the sunflowers’ faces turned towards the town below them on the other side of a crooked fence. Eyes on the red roofs, Harry feels his camera bumping against his chest as he runs after Louis through the waist-length plants.

“It’s like we’re floating,” pants Louis, looking down below at the misty wall beyond the town.

Harry, spreading arms like taking a flight, whoops, “I’m the king of the world!”

“Get here before you fall of the edge of your world, Your Highness.”

Louis has sat down on the driest spot he could find. As Harry joins him, Louis pulls a thermos out from a bag that was strapped to the front of the bike and twists it open, pouring something into the cap.

“Is this tea?” Harry asks, eyeing the offered liquid.

He’s been warned not to drink tea Louis fixes: it’s strong enough to make your tongue prickle for hours. Honestly, he would, but he wants to know what he’s getting into first.

“No, coffee.”

“You stole Matt’s coffee.” Exasperated.

“It’s from the second floor.”

“Oh, the good stuff.”

Harry’s seen it offered with soy milk at Winston’s gatherings. Apparently, it’s twice-roasted, Italian, very hipster.

They enjoy it in comfortable silence as the wind rustles the flowers around them.

“There’s something you should know,” Louis says, breaking it eventually. “They released the trailer yesterday…I got the idea Winston didn’t quite like it, but ITV wanted to rush it out to avoid being drowned by the Great British Bake-Off promo.”

The fact he’s got Twitter open already tells Harry the following isn’t going be good. He clicks on one of the trending subjects (called #Larry, which in itself doesn’t raise any alarm in Harry) and suddenly they are scrolling down _hundreds_ of screencaps of the same couple moments in the trailer where (Harry’s stomach does a backflip) the two of them are together.

“Fuck,” Harry says and finds his voice hoarse. He takes a sip of coffee to wet his mouth. “What have I done…”

Harry expects Louis to share his anxiety if not the guilt but, inexplicably, Louis is grinning.

“What’s with the face?”

“This is not a coincidence,” Louis tells him.

Harry looks from him to the same three-second clip of his own face that seems almost frozen although all other movement loops again and again. He doesn’t need to follow Screen Him’s gaze find out who he is observing with such rooted, star-eyed wonder.

“You mean,” he says when the realization starts to sink in, “you knew the fans—is it your fans? You knew they’d…do this,” he gestured at the screen, “and now that this is out, that will affect us, how? You think Winston is taking one look at this spreading wider and goes to grab a hammer and nails the pride flag onto the Entertainment Room wall?”

Louis snorts. He’s pretty even when he tries to cover his nose where a bit of snot came out from the force of his exhale. Harry feels thoroughly accomplished.

“As amusing as that’d be, never underestimate a money-motivated man.”

“Huh,” was all Harry says. He brings a finger to Louis’ phone and scrolls down some more. “What’s this king business?”

“King Princess?”

“Just ‘king’. I think it’s a nickname.”

“Well, I certainly don’t know any other royalty,” says Louis with a smile. “Is that what you’re planning to call yourself after this show? I thought Harry Styles as your given name would’ve been enough.”

He’s teasing. There’s that spark in his eyes again that’s been there since day one and, unawares, Harry fiddles with the strap of the camera around his neck. Would asking to capture it be too much? The contrast of the blue sky, Louis’ eyes and the yellow of the flowers has his fingers itching to turn the camera on—

Then Louis gasps so dramatically the camera drops from his grip and yanks painfully on its chain linked around the back of Harry’s neck. He’s looking around the field, half expecting to see Winston looking like a bull that’s just seen red with a crowd of paparazzi behind him, but there was nothing visible above the inflorescence.

“What did you _do that for?”_

But Louis isn’t looking at him or beyond him but down. Next, he leans to pick something from the dirt, holding up in the air, against the light. It’s a plastic ring, the kind that’s found inside cheap Easter eggs. It probably _is_ from an egg; it’s only been two months.

“Oh, I remember these. I gave my sisters all that I found in my eggs,” Louis says, lost in reminiscing. “I thought they were bigger, I don’t think these will fit them anymore.”

Done with turning it over in his hands, he hands the ring over to Harry.

“It’s not my size, either,” Harry points out drily.

“Just pocket it until we cycle past a bin, I know you hate littering,” Louis says and drops in in Harry’s palm.

When Harry looks down at it, pink, glittering and small on the wide flat of his hand, he has a sudden urge to not do it. Keep it as a little memento. Does he have a right to, though? He’s not about to kid himself—it wouldn’t be a memento of the show, but of Louis. Are they close enough to justify holding onto this little ring because of sentimentality…?

“Feeling less stressed now?” Louis says, suddenly watching him shrewdly. “I should’ve started to make a rebel out of you earlier if I had known it’s what it takes to have you take a break.

“I’m not stressed, just…lost.”

Louis lifts his brows. Still staring down at the ring, Harry starts as if it’s Thursday again and they are in Louis’ room on opposing sides of the bed.

“Everything in our world needs to be outlinable,” he says, “fitted into a category—even people. The problem is, I feel like I can’t squeeze myself into tiny enough a fragment of myself to fit into this narrow definition of what a star should be. Apparently if I don’t do it myself, somebody else is going to do it for me.”

Louis shifts next to him. Harry thinks he wanted to reach for him but decided against it.

“And you feel as though omitting parts of you is as good as lying to the people that look up to you? You’re scared that whoever is going to take charge turns your image into something you find unworthy of admiring?”

That is such an unexpected question that Harry gapes at Louis; it’s like he knows the feeling.

“That’s about it,” Harry says.

“Not many people care to feel that way. You’re a good man, Harry. And being so _good_ just _shows_ —and people will see that, through whatever character assassination, no matter how determined someone is to blacken your name.”

 Harry considers Louis quietly. He is still surprised at how he managed to gain Louis’ confidence.

“Have you ever thought about this, you know, you making money out of what you know,” he starts uncertainly, pausing for thought and watches a car rattle downhill along the road. “Any artist would be lucky to have a guy like you behind their back.”

“Actually, the paperwork is already there,” Louis confesses, and Harry finds him biting his nails in a Niall-esque nervous gesture. “I just need to refresh some dates and details and publish. I think, if this solo artist thing doesn’t happen, I would love to have a record label.”

“Why not have both? You’ll have loads of time after. You’d be a great artist and an even greater businessman,” Harry says, trying to press his point home. It is not a good look to see Louis tiptoe when he’s used to _strut_. “No one has told you nothing would come out of it, have they?”

“To tell the truth,” Louis says, “I _think_ they put it in somewhat more fancy terms, along ‘you’re not very realistic in terms of your market value’ but it’s been a few years, so.”

“Who said that?” Harry says sharply.

Louis pretends to be very interested in a rock.

“Well, I for one think that guy’s a lousy businessman,” insist Harry stubbornly, and scowls down at the town where the mist is starting to recede before the steadily rising heat. Crickets are chirping in the ditch next to the road.

“You…you don’t know them, they’ve got a lot—they own everything…”

Louis’ desperate struggle for words quiets.

Then he leans over and presses his lips to Harry’s. First there’s the stillness of surprise as though Harry has missed a step going down stairs. At the back of his head, he goes, Oh, so that’s why he trusts me. The next, Harry inhales and presses for more, for a warm, enquiring, I-want-more-if-you-do kiss. Their bodies are still apart although their faces are touching.

Louis, balanced only on one hip, leans heavily on Harry’s side as he breaks first into the motions of ending the kiss. Though, once they have separated, it seems Louis did it only to rest his eyes on Harry’s face.

Just how _long ago_ did he believe this man could ever be hateful? They linger that way in the lethargic dimension between a kiss and the aftermath until Louis lays his head on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry gathers his courage for, “Do you think I could take a picture—of you, I mean, obviously, that’s why I’m…asking.” There’s no response. “Sorry, that was…was it creepy? It sounded creepy, right? Louis?”

Louis sniffs and his head shifts on his shoulder. It’s enough to draw Harry’s eyes to his face which has gone slack from sleep, and where Harry’s eyes linger as Louis crunches his nose against whatever disrupted his rest.

Harry heart seems to swell inside his chest and he shuffles to reach for Louis’ phone, dropped to the ground from his lax hands, without moving Louis and punches in an alarm for 9am. Then, he settles in comfortably and let’s his own daydreams take him.

 

***

 

Sneaking back, it’s clear Harry should not have let Louis sleep. Waiting with his arms akimbo at the entry, is Trevor, looking dangerously like a storm cloud about to strike. At the main hall, they find the rest of the boys who, upon seeing they are fine, scatter at the sight of the upcoming chastising. Trevor sits them down around the emptied table, picks up a box of cereal and a carton of milk from the only lingering breakfast chart, and slams them down in front of them so hard some flakes spill down from the box.

“So, both at the same time or does one of you want to try my temper first.”

Which is, of course, how Harry is left to eat cereal alone while Louis is pulled to another room for a good lecture.

Harry tries to chew as slow and as quiet as he possibly can to see if he can overhear anything of their conversation. Sadly, the only result is very soggy cereal that feels nasty to swallow.

Six mouthfuls later Trevor returns to give Harry his turn. Louis nowhere to be seen.

“This is outrageous,” Trevor starts but has seemingly lost most of the storm. “Honestly, I expected better from you, Harry.”

Despite looking agitated, when Trevor speaks again, he tries to cool his tone into collected disapproval.

“Leaving the premises with no security detail with you when not only one but _both_ of you are clearly recognizable figures. Do you have any idea what troubles it would have brought to us if you had been hurt in a mobbing or gotten chased back here?”

Guilt stabs Harry’s stomach. He sets down his spoon. “I’m sorry,” he says truthfully.

“No harm done, thankfully, but you do realize what kind of place you would have put us to if you had been harmed on our watch? In the premises or not, any accident happening over the course of this week will result in our necks on the line. You jeopardized not only your safety but our jobs.”

Harry bites back the infantile reaction of tearing up when scolded at.

“No more. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Trevor looks almost started at being addressed like that, and when he leaves there’s something close to a bounce in his steps.

Harry is suddenly aware the hall and the whole main floor around him is quiet. The corners of it are empty of cameras and no one has come to put a mic on him. They must be busy somewhere, putting up their next important set where Harry will have to play host.

Liam and Niall make a sudden reappearance now that the coast is clear.

 “Where’s Zayn?” Harry asks, looking around the main floor.

Niall shrugs. “Sleeping…hiding again, I don’t know.”

“Last I saw he was pretty upset,” says Liam, shooting a dirty look at the back of Niall’s head. “He just got the news they will start playing up the ‘Zaylor’ rumours right after filming ends so that the relationship will be nice and chummy right in time for September when all this airs.”

Harry feels the skin on his neck prickle—he knows Swift is beyond the show’s paygrade, but he’s been worried since day one that she just might do what would be just her level of dramatics and turn up anyway. What would he do if one of the duet songs is hers and the cameras milk him for a reaction?

“So, he’s what, not coming?” Niall asks, apparently feeling the unfairness of three out of five guests managing to shirk their duties.

“Give him time,” says Liam. But Niall is right. There’s a change this has been the last straw that broke the camel’s back.

Liam is still shooting dark looks Niall who exchanges a meaningful glance with Harry. When Harry isn’t immediately clued on, he huffs.

“Ya sneaky, lucky bastard,” Niall says but his approving grin lessens the impact somewhat. “I don’t suppose ya would tell us how to get past the security? Another day of work... I’d give a great deal to have this to be my day and just lay back and enjoy.”

Harry finds it very hard to be sympathetic to Niall’s plight, when he can’t see himself ‘sitting back and enjoying’ any soon.

“Not tired of this yet?” Harry asks Liam, who’s been cured of his yesterday’s cabin fever.

“I make do,” he says.

Niall seems to realize his troubles aren’t raising enough response in his current audience and changes topic. From time to time, Harry catches him cast a longing look to the sunlit golf course. By eleven o’clock, when there’s still no sign of the crew, Liam and Niall leave Harry and retreat upstairs. Not long after their backs have disappeared, a staff member comes over and puts the mic on him, finally. Louis, who’s forgone breakfast, still hasn’t been seen. At least until the staircase thunders under dozens of feet and a large gaggle of crew descends and trailing behind them, looking thoroughly disinterested— _Louis._

Harry feels a swoop inside his stomach that has little to do with the reminder of oncoming work. Trevor at the helm, the crew briefs him on how they want to start shooting first scene in Harry’s room.

Harry has had very little time to spare for thinking what to say or do and suddenly finding himself facing a Sunday spent entirely under direct attention, has him feeling rather alarmingly underprepared. Four men have hosted before him. Harry wishes they hadn’t; he feels they have set a standard that with which everyone will expect him to compete.

When Harry can no longer pretend there is something to be done with his mic, he stands up and—quite literally—faces the music.

“Good luck, Harry. You’re a good man, remember that,” Louis tells him with a pointed look as Harry’s about to head upstairs. “I’m going to try and get the rest of us boys together again.”

Then he sets off to what Harry now knows is the direct route to the boiler room.

The fact that it’s his day doesn’t sink in until he is standing in the garden facing towards the lake and introducing his own, old guilty pleasure.

“Okay,” says Harry, mouth dry from more than just the heath, “I reckon we should all just grab a shovel, our plants and get on with it.”

It feels very odd to be issuing directions, but not nearly as odd as seeing the boys listen to them. Everybody puts boots on, passes the shovels to each other and bickers over the plants. Predictably, the biggest one is left for Harry.

The grounds fill with the noise of the shovels shifting the dirt, with occasional sharp _twangs_ from hitting a rock. Because Harry has to dig the deepest and widest hole, he doesn’t have time to move around observing. Though he figures they will get the picture once their pits are large enough to fit the plant from roots to top.

Finally, having sweated through his shirt, Harry is finally able to move off around them. Liam’s looks good and so does Zayn’s (Harry’s suspicious he’s been helped by his neighbour), but Niall’s plant is crooked in his too shallow but wide hole. Slowly, all their plants look ready to strike root.

“Ok,” he says, halting the work when the last watering pot runs empty. “Good work.”

He has avoided going too near Louis whose plant is the smallest, but after giving instructions twice to everyone else, he feels he cannot ignore him any longer.

Louis stands up when he sees Harry approach.

“It looks great,” Harry compliments.

“Half the flowers fell off when I took the plastic pot off,” Louis says ruefully, glancing down at his suffering-looking peony.

“You should’ve just grabbed in closer to the roots, honestly, it looks fine.”

“It’s gonna die, just say it.”

A smile tugs at the corners of Harry’s mouth. He can’t help but find this very cathartic; after all his fumbling, he can finally look superior to everybody else.

“No, really. Very nice digging. I was watching…,” he blushes, “I was watching you from over there.”

“Were you?” The spark’s back again.

“I was watching all of you.”

Louis’ brow furrows and he looks like his about to say something when Liam clears his throat loudly behind Harry’s back.  When Harry tears his gaze away from Louis, Niall’s biting his nails and Zayn stands funnily as though trying make himself physically block as much of the view he can.

“Right,” Harry sighs. “Let’s get inside before we get sunburn, shall we?”

They despatch, Zayn to an interview, Louis to a rehearsal, and then only Niall and Liam are left, the former keeping up a chatter with many complaints about having to put weight on his knees which miraculously seem to bother him less when he has more pleasant things to perform, like football.

“It was a nice change,” Niall says, as they slip though the circle of crew and scattered tech. “But ya should’ve given us gloves as well. My fingernails are so black I’ll have to scrub my skin raw to make them look presentable tonight. Ah, the woes of high definition.”

Liam attacks him with his dirty fingers and that brings an end to the complaints.

 

 

 

***

 

 

The wrapping paper crinkles as Harry takes out to see for the first time the suit he will wear tonight. It’s not just for him; there’s about so many men inside his room it’s hard to find an angle to film without catching any of them in the frame as well. Even after three Tour Diaries and only having stayed less than a week in this room, being so intimately displayed for the lenses feels very voyeuristic. Harry guesses it’s the small-town boy in him.

“It’s a black jumpsuit,” he runs his monologue to the camera, having trouble lifting the thing so that it’s captured in the frame from top to flowy legs. “Most design is on the collar which is good. My lover half will be hidden behind the table’s edge all evening anyway.”

 _Try in on,_ mouths the camera guy with the beard. He signals for a pirouette with two of his fingers he can spare from maintaining the camera angle. Harry swallows his sigh. Voyeur.

There’s a gentle clunk as Harry takes off his pants in front of the ten-odd men and women. Down on the fitted carpet lays the plastic ring that’s fallen off his pocket. Harry casts around wildly for some means of distracting the others so that it can go unnoticed—but the crew’s followed his shifted attention and it’s too late.

 Pants pooling at his ankles, Harry tries to collect himself under the curious gazes.

“Er,” says the bearded man. “Take two? You can…kick that under the bed or something—uh, whatever _that_ is.”

A part of Harry bristles at the dismissive tone but making more of a number out of it seems counterproductive so he toes the ring under the bed.

The second take doesn’t offer much more. The bearded man sighs in exasperated fashion.

“Harry, you do great when this is not running but we can’t exactly put a blanket on top of the camera and pretend it’s not there.”

And though Harry would rather take all his clothes off than admit it to them, by the time the jumpsuit is on him he would give half his net worth not to continue telling the lenses the same things on take three, four…

By fifth one, Harry’s running commentary of his usual pre-show routines and the designer of the suit quickly turns mechanical at best, and then, just as quickly, stops altogether. The blue flowers of the wallpaper really do match the exact shade of Louis’ eyes and it just occurred to Harry what Louis meant with his pep talk.

A realization, which has him coming up with madder and madder quirks, much to the satisfaction of the crew who hardly even flinch as he cooks up a skincare routine involving submerging his face in ice cold water for twenty seconds to make his pores smaller.

 _Liar_ , says the voice of a faceless fan and this time he just smirks at them.

“Welcome back, Mr. Styles,” says the bearded man with approval in his gaze. “I think that’s it, all done, take a five. Let’s start setting up the equipment in the Entertainment Room…”

They pack up, leaving the room suddenly much dimmer without the extra lighting. When the last rig is carried out, Harry waits until it’s mannerly to snap the door shut. Then, he bends to pick up the ring and digs his belongings for a chain to attach it to.

He’ll wear no other jewellery tonight.

One floor down, hands bare of rings, Harry later runs into Zayn and Louis, joining them to trek the distance between the front entry and the French doors at the back. Outside, the heath is in a race for the fastest decline with the sun.

“It really is good to see you feeling better,” Harry says cautiously to Zayn as they cross the lawn.

“Yeah, I was caught in my head for a while, there,” says Zayn, scratching his nose. “Louis here helped some, though he said I would be better off talkin’ to you since you’ve actually been in my exact situation.”

Harry waits for the subsequent shudder, but it doesn’t come.

“Sure,” said Harry, trying to sound casual, “if you need someone to talk to after a stunt, you can give me a call. God knows I’d have loved to have a number like that back then.”

Louis, one or two steps in front of then, whips his head around at that. Harry meets his alarmed look unflinchingly. Between the filming and all the men crowding in his room, Harry hasn’t had the chance to actually look into a mirror. Now, his mirror is Louis’ eyes and the once-over at the violently metallic suit.

Louis’ steps slow down once he realizes Harry isn’t looking away. “What’re you looking at?”

“I’m looking at you.” Harry eyes the hollow of Louis’ cheek. “You know, breakfast’s the most important meal of the day.”

“Ah,” Louis says rather sheepishly, picking up his walk again as though wanting to physically escape the subject. “I see we’re both trying to sneakily improve other people’s health. I still haven’t forgiven you forletting me fall asleep, by the way.”

Harry is well-used to this tactic, after all, as the oh-you-shouldn’t-have tone is one of his mother’s favourites. Damn everyone that ever asked anything of him, Harry finds himself cursing when they pass through the doors into the buzzing room. Damn everyone that ever took anything from him and gave nothing in return.

Harry sits down at the end of the table and pretends he doesn’t hear the crew moving behind him.

“Okay,” says one. “First try in three…two…one…”

_Clap._

They eat, they talk. Darkness deepens outside the windows; Harry doesn’t check the time. Their plates empty after what seems like seconds, and the sheet labelled Shoot Day Five haunts in his head. The food is sawdust in his mouth as he indicates the others should serve themselves some more dessert, fearing it might turn around and choke him if he swallows. There is a swishing noise as he jiggles his leg under the table, building courage to start his intro.

This time, it’s his turn to invite the boys into his family grief. He sounds like he’s got a bad cold as he tells them about when his stepdad had gotten diagnosed with cancer, yet when the cameras lean in to capture a sign of weakness, he doesn’t show any, not even if he has to sit there all night, cutting open the semi-healed wounds of his loss…

Under the table, a thumb presses to his thigh in a small, comforting touch.

Shortly, the performers rise onto the stage and blur into one. No dessert would have stayed down because not thirty minutes later, it’s the closing performance of the night—the last solo performance of the week—and Louis (or more likely, someone out there who’s got it in for Harry) has chosen Louis to cover _Ever Since New York._

“Sorry,” Louis says by the way of a prelude to catch their interest, “I wanted it to be a real grand piano, but they said it wouldn’t fit, so…”

He takes the last steps and seats himself in front of a more modest, white piano, setting his fingers on the keys but doesn’t press them yet.

“Piano was never my thing,” Louis continues, “but it I guess it will be now, because it can’t be my mother’s anymore.” He leans over the keys to the mic. “Um, this is for lost loved ones.”

Honestly, it’s a performance Harry has no recollection of. He guesses he can watch it on ITV’s webpage later in October. Even the band’s backing instruments fall silent and listen, it feels. Harry has to look up to the wires of the set electronics snaking in the ceiling to compose himself. Ironic, he thinks, that Winston is finally getting those tears he’s after.

Harry risks a wet glance at Louis, sees him re-angle the mic while plucking the keys one-handed, ignoring the camera as it zips for a close-up shot—of his hands, of his face, who knows. Louis seems to deal with the attention by simply behaving like it does not exist.

Another high note. Louis has changed the song to play to his strengths.

 _Why wouldn’t piano be his thing,_ is Harry’s only thought as Louis finishes the songs with flourish. He may have stood up then, but he is not sure for his attention is on Louis.

“That was brilliant!” Harry says hoarsely as he rounds the table to Louis, tunnel-vision blurred. He catches Louis around the neck and sobs into his shoulder. They feel two thumps as Liam and Niall collide with them; then Zayn, with less force, coming to cover their left flank, as though all three of them are bodily shielding their private moment from the outside eyes.

Inside the many-armed hug, Louis and he are pressed chest to chest so tightly Harry can feel the plastic ring press against his sternum.

Words fail them. The last cover is over. The boys simply beam at each other, jumping up and down and around on their feet like a carousel. Right then, surrounded by these four people brought together by the show, Harry finally feels like the dead may finally rest.

 

***

 

Trevor comes to the main hall at midnight, hands armed with a pile of papers labelled Shoot Day Six. He takes a chair and dives into business.

“Here’s the last schedules for tomorrow’s duets. The pairings have been chosen as follows; Niall and Liam; Zayn and Niall; Liam and Harry.”

Despite a small disappointed swoop inside of him, Harry bravely grins at Niall who’s gotten two performances, and who looks rather pleased about it. Liam is clapped in the back as well by Zayn, who looks pretty content with his one. But, as Harry looks next to him, finding Louis eyes cast downwards, throat bobbing, it hits him. One name was missing. The others latch on quickly.

“What about Louis?” asks Liam.

“Yeah, what about him?” Niall restates, rather more aggressively.

Louis’ eyes meet Harry’s. He is hardly ever caught unprepared, but Louis’ eyes betray his fear.

“My orders came from the executives,” says Trevor. Harry can tell the thought of it is not a comforting notion to the man.

“Oh yeah,” Harry starts, unable to stay out of it, “it’s their job to delegate less enjoyable tasks, is it?”

Trevor’s neck flushes a satisfying shade of purple as he raises his voice to be heard above the complaints.

“There will be _four_ performances, the last one still remains unknown because I haven’t received a call from Ben—”

That is the exact moment the front door opens and determined steps march towards them.

“Last performance of the night: Harry and Louis,” says a silvery voice from behind them. Harry turns his head so fast his neck cricks.

Ben Winston is standing leisurely at the doorway, eyebags blacker than Harry had ever seen them but there is something almost manic in his eyes. Going by the expressions of the lingering crew, this is not an expected social call.

“B-Ben,” Trevor stutters as he springs up as though scalded. “We were just about to call it a night. Do you want some tea?”

“No, no. Sit down. I don’t want to interrupt. But if I could borrow your room and bother Mr. Styles and Mr. Tomlinson for five minutes.”

The atmosphere around the table chances unmistakably. Everyone looks from their high-ups to the two men; no one finds his casual-toned invite ingenuous, or believes he just happened to want to the two of them right after handing the songs.

“Sure,” Louis, who seemed to have undergone an astonishing recovery, speaks into the silence. “Go right ahead.”

“In private,” adds Winston.

They aren’t fooled; all talk about schedules aside, this was his real intent all along.

“No problem,” says Harry, this time, since he sees Liam stand like he’s going to physically intimidate Winston to talking in front of several witnesses.

“Splendid!” Winston says and sends Louis and Harry ahead to the third floor, saying, “Just for five minutes, gentlemen. Continue.”

In third floor, there’s already a familiar tea party face from ITV waiting for them by the closed door of Winston’s make-shift office. They go in, the PR man watching them with a calculating eye.

“Sit, Dave,” fusses Winston, “sit, sit. Harry, grab the blue chair and drag it in here beside Louis, in front of my desk, please.”

The chair stands unstable on the edge of the carpet but Harry sits down as he does not want to sit too far from Louis. Winston settles down last, elbows on table, hands entwined.

“I’ve been waiting to talk to you for a while,” Winston confesses. “For a long time now, actually. Your respective managements have been very unforthcoming when I asked around after us producers got together, so I thought…we really got great plot points planned regarding the two of you—in this show, and maybe even after it, if you’re up for it.”

Dave is nodding. Plans they have for them _after_ this? Harry can practically hear Louis’ brain whirring next to him.

“And what rumours there is around you two! Although we all know how these things tend to escalate by word-of-mouth…all this talk that you are secretly a couple…”

Harry has shot so many furtive glances at Louis he can feel the back of his eyes starting to throb.

“…I presume you’ve seen it, and discussed it with your people?”

Harry opens his mouth. Then closes it and shoots yet another a look at a frowning Louis.

“If they bother my team, they haven’t said anything about it,” Harry offers as the truth, eyes still on Louis.

“Yes, well, I understand your secrecy,” Winston shoots a look at Louis as well, “of course it is a very delicate matter. And it has nothing to do with whether you’re actually together or not.”

 “I’m not sure I understood you,” Harry says.

“Let’s say you _are_ together,” Winston says, and his sudden, apparent happiness in their hypothetical relationship catches Harry off guard, “but to the general public…they don’t really need to know the specifics. They only need to believe in it.”

“I—”

“You want us to fake a relationship.”

Harry almost jumps at the sound of Louis’ voice. Although locked tight, his posture is so forcefully placed in a relaxed manner that if you sit on the other side of the desk, you won’t see it; won’t hear his unnaturally paced breathing.

“You’re seeking our _approval to_ _out Louis?”_ Harry starts, enraged.

“It won’t have to come that far,” says Winston. “The crucial point is, though, that you have suddenly overnight become a symbol of something to an entirely new audience we have never managed to reach, and who are becoming very invested in you and your story. The thought that _true love_ can be found in a reality show—well, it would make anyone hungry for more—”

“The show was trending with 96K tweets about the subject of your relationship for six hours on Twitter yesterday,” says so far silently surveyed Dave as though he can’t subdue himself any longer. _“World_ wide.”

“—and I can’t help but wonder that if you saw how many people your relationship has already personally touched, you might consider it your responsibility to support them.”

Harry’s stomach is full of bubbling guilt. Has he gotten them in this mess because he just couldn’t hide his feelings? Without him, Louis would be in this show with four friends, his only concern being writing music. And it is no good telling himself he can help now when there’s also the business of it being he who’s been wined and dined by Winston to keep the man happy in the first place. He’s only managed to give the man more ammunition by letting him get so close.

Harry bites his cheek and stays mulishly silent as Winston’s brown eyes shift from him to Louis and back.

Unsatisfied, Winston prods, “Well, what do you think?”

“I won’t do it,” Harry says, quickly.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Harry. There are more important people behind this than me.” Winston says; Harry imagines it physically hurt him to admit it. “If you could just talk about the show in positive light—let’s say, in the BBC Radio One interviews that are already scheduled for you in the autumn—people would come to their own conclusions. I could call some media attention on it… Of course, I won’t leave _you_ empty-handed. I can arrange dinner dates with the rich and the famous: John Legend, Kesha. Simon Cowell has heard of your wish to rebrand, Harry. A contract with Sony can be easily arranged…”

Winston pauses. He is now staring avidly at Harry, who waits but Winston does not speak again.

“So, basically you want us to play up the bromance while singing praise to your show but never confirm a relationship?” Harry says slowly.

“If that’s not asking too much.”

“It kind of is, though,” says Harry, brisk.

Winston shoots forward in his chair. His frenzied flush of reaching new levels of engagement in pre-show promo disappears, and he nervously licks his lips.

“…What?”

“Look, I may come off as stupid because I talk slow but I’m not here to queerbate the new, young audience you just gained. Funny, how you said—what was it? My ‘responsibility’ is to support them? That’s exactly why I say no.”

Winston’s face hardens and when he speaks, he isn’t able to sound friendly at all: “Remember what we discussed last time you were here.”

“You weren’t able to buy our pride, don’t expect threats to work any better,” says Harry, who is really starting to get angry.

Harry feels a hand touch his and he shrugs it off. It might have been Louis’ but Harry’s on a roll now; it’s Louis’ turn to witness a fight.

“You expect us to go, Gotcha! We’re just close friends, after viewing’s safely over, and the only figures you have to worry about are the next season’s?”

“We never meant—” says Dave, backtracking fast.

“Where are the young?” Harry continues over the interruption. “Where’s your show’s future, Ben? Your show is dying. How are you going to create a future phenomenon when you’re so stuck in past?”

A long silence falls between them. Winston stares at Harry, stock-still, over the desk.

Harry hesitates, anger ebbing and a sort of uneasiness sinking in, then finally looks to his right. Louis, finally mobile, is leaning towards Harry, arm half-extended to him. There’s a bright sheen to his eyes and as Harry takes him in, the moisture pools in one corner, ready to spill down. Feeling overwhelmed, Harry flushes. Winston mistakes it for redness of anger and looks at Dave helplessly.

“Louis?” pleads Dave, who seems to have lost his thread.

“Well,” says Louis after clearing his throat and stands up, brushing invisible flints off his thighs. “I bet you’ll have a jolly good time explaining all those plans to my team. Once they can spare a minute, they’ll be sure to tell you that any discussion about my sexuality won’t be allowed in any form of media until we’ve chosen the date of my—inevitable—coming out.”

Harry’s quite frozen until a hand closes around his elbow and tugs him out of the seat and out of the room, where he nearly walks into Louis who’s stopped abruptly at the opened door.

 “I wouldn’t actually bother, if I were you,” Louis addresses the men. “It’s a bit below your paygrade, gentlemen. Goodnight.”

The last bit is said with the door open so that any lingering staff may overhear the dismissal, and Harry realizes Louis seeks payback for having been humiliated in front of his own co-workers. A last fleeting look presents him the scene of Winston turning alarmingly purple in the face, and Dave who has stabbed his pencil though the sheet of paper of his lap.

“Stealing shirts, criticizing both his way to run the show and his life, damn, you’re having one hell of a week,” Louis says as soon as they’re hurrying down the corridor.

Harry feels rather flattered.

“I wish I was as smooth as you,” he admits.

“Oh, we’ll make a real corporate’s worst nightmare out of you, Harry Styles.”

 

 

 

DAY SIX

Monday

 

 

The rest of the night all five stay up, snacking and insulting the executives for they all agree it takes a special amount of spinelessness to act like coming out is a casual thing to drop hints about, not unlike a funny peeve or a misbehaving, new pet. And Winston claiming to have the wellbeing of LGBT youth close to his heart is declared to be a serious case of warped sentimentality.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have antagonized him like that,” Harry tells Louis before bed.

“It’s the last day of the show,” Louis says with a large amount of bravado that Harry can’t tell if it’s genuine or not. “He may be petty, but how lasting can his little bans be?”

But the next day, though, it turns out Ben Winston can be very petty. Once the morning dawns, it is clear the crew is in a very vindictive mood and no one is in any doubt why. Winston hasn’t found his rejection funny and has whipped his crew into a never-seen-before frenzy. Trevor’s brows draw together at the barest hint of not-cooperating and seems to be unhappy with everything.

“O-kay,” whistles Liam after they get yelled at for dawdling for the third time, “someone got held all night in that office after you lot left.”

Fortunately, they have to let them go sometime to get the music part of the deal done.

“Oh, this is good. This is really good.”

Harry’s pollen-clogged lungs inflate so quickly he feels as if he could float several inches off the chair. Who cares about them having to act straight; Louis thinks he’s a good writer. For a moment Harry contemplates purposely dropping his notebook in a manner that would let Louis have a peek of his newest scribbles… but the moment this thought occurs to him, Louis thrusts their joint notes towards him.

“Here, think this is too explicit for the show? Are we going to have angry mothers boycotting future seasons?”

Harry has a fleeting vision of Ben Winston’s face when he realizes what they mean by appetite.

“It can be cut out, can’t it?” Harry grants.

Louis makes a thoughtful noise and brings the papers back towards himself.

Harry watches his lashes flutter as he blinks, watches the prominent knuckle of his index finger as he crosses over a line and writes a new under it. The blue stripe of his jumper brings out his eyes.

“What’s going on under those curls of yours?” Louis asks, recapping his pen, sounding amused.

The main hall’s south-facing windows let in warm daylight. It slides slowly across the stained parquet, illuminates the white chairs under them and their sheets of lyrics. Harry watches Louis rearrange them in order.

“Huh?” Harry asks, although he head perfectly well. “Oh, just about the melody in the chorus. How do you say we jump up by third and fifth intervals? G4, all right?”

Louis stops shifting sheets and pulls the middle one back on top. “I didn’t think of that,” he says. “Let’s try it.”

Louis reaches for the pen (now laid against Harry’s forearm following Louis’ fussing) and his hand brushes at Harry’s wrist, fingers fleeting over the point of his skittering pulse. Looking down at the rope coiling around Louis’, there’s a brief moment in which the distant echo of a boat being tied to a dock seems to reverberate through the intervening days.

As though hearing it, too, Louis looks up and gives him a small smile, pressing his lips into a tight ‘v’ as he scribbles down the new idea. Harry looks down at his (still tingling) left wrist and thinks he should call his tattooist about an idea of an anchor to his marooning rope—but they are interrupted before he can decide if the wants to do it on his right wrist or his left one.

“Guys, the photographer is here,” says Liam.

The dust hasn’t even settled in the yard in the van’s wake. Hot sun hits them with a blast as they walk down the entryway stairs, looking curiously at the unloading of the equipment.

“Ah, sun, _finally!”_ says an american voice. “Thought we’d have to do another rain check and call you back here later… What an organization nightmare that would have been.”

The man is dressed in leather that must be feeling pretty stifling at the moment, yet their photographer is gesturing wildly where he needs more lighting, or more shade, declaring the setting ’amazing, amazing’ as he looks up at the worn brick façade. Louis catches Harry’s eye and looks away quickly, grinning.

Right at start, they are placed on the front steps of the manor that has most obviously woken a strong vision in the man. They sit down, stand up, lean to each other and pose in so many ways and shapes they forget if the decision to change positions was theirs or the man’s.

“Amazing, amazing,” he keeps repeating until, all of a sudden, abandons his tripod and takes Louis by the shoulders and pulls him to forefront. His hands linger. Harry clears his throat loudly.

It looks like the whole manor has emptied and filled the yard to watch the shoot. Assembled across the driveway, cooks, tech guys, cleaners, camera crews are standing just beyond the bank of photoshoot equipment; even a few gardeners have abandoned their wheelbarrows. Prominent among them is Trevor with the unmistakable look of a ruler overseeing his subjects.

“Should I lean against the door or do you want me to do a more professional pose,” asks Niall from next to Harry, who thinks Niall is laying his fresh modelling career a bit thick.

Liam snorts, pinching his black tee away from his chest, trying to air out some sweat.

It is that time of the afternoon the sun is starting to peek around the corner of the manor and warm the entry facing west. In front of Harry, a bead of moisture is running down Louis’ neck. It disappears under his yellow shirt and, though there’s no way to tell if it gets absorbed by the fabric, Harry’s eyes follow south.

“Eyes on the camera, please,” the photographer snaps.

Taking his sweet time, Harry tears his eyes off Louis’ arse.

The last of Winston’s insults is served by another means of promotion: Dan Wootton from The Sun, and his exclusive-hungry gaze that sweeps the manor in a look that would get even the ghosts to cower in the cellar.

“Harry, we meet again,” he says, giving no sign of acknowledging that the last time they were in the same room, even the most casual of his fans caught the look of utter loathing in Harry’s eyes. “Last season the critics claimed the show appeared to be just a big marketing push, and I’m here to fix that. I’ve got exclusive rights to behind the scenes footage that I get to release first thing in September.

“You must be over the moon,” Harry says sardonically.

“Yes, yes,” Wootton waves it aside. “We’re not here to talk about me. I want to talk about _you_. The show’s first, big star.”

Harry casts an angry look towards the second-floor windows, though he knows no one’s in. This is, he feels, all Winston’s fault; he has decided to display them like prizes and now this guy turns up to see just how wild a story he can dig from them. But none of them have said a word, least of all Zayn, who barely leant the man ten seconds of his time.

“Can I get a few words about the show? What are the other boys like? How about the one the audience knows least?” Wootton continues, looking like he’s about to finally reach his point. “What’s the dirty laundry on Louis Tomlinson?”

“I have nothing to give you,” Harry says coolly.

“The word on the street is that he can manipulate people to get what he wants. Has that caused any trouble for you? No partying? Booze? Especially now that one of the guests is celebrating a sacred month, has there been any incident caused by your forced abstinence?”

Harry’s hand sends a painful twinge up his arm. Uncurling his fist and lowering his arms back to his side in bemusement, his death grip around the plastic ring is released. Red welt is rising on the skin of his palm, but he feels numb to it.

“It—is—none—of—your—business—how—one—handles—their—grief,” he says in a hushed, chilling whisper.

“That, Louis,” Wootton equally silently, his lips barely moving now, “he’s really done a number on you, hasn’t he?”

Harry meets his gaze head on. “He has.”

They glare at each other is apparent mutual dislike until it’s broken off by on outsider about a minute in.

“Mr. Wootton,” says Trevor in a cool tone, “if you insist on stealing my stars, at least have all five of them at once instead of one by one, so I don’t have to waste my whole day hunting and gathering them back together.”

Dan Wootton looks like he’s just sucked on a large, especially tart lemon. Harry feels a surge of amusement—his anger at Trebor’s snappishness has quite evaporated.

“I love hearing him lecture someone else,” Niall says when Harry slinks back to the boys.

Trevor makes them truly work for the lost minutes. Harry hears him muttering ‘…less authority than a common journalist…’ ‘…bloody know-it-all…’ ‘…that will show him…’ as he makes rounds midst the crew, snapping at everything he deems lacking.

In the middle of shooting their duo-interview, Niall spares a scornful glance at Wootton’s car that’s still parked in the yard.

“Wootton may be in good terms with Winston,” he says while Matt brushes make-up on his shiny forehead, “but Trevor’s got a temper on him. In my opinion, Wootton’s friendship with Cowell has gone way over his head.”

Harry chokes on his spit. _“Simon_ Cowell?”

“Yeah, funny how all dirt can be traced to the same garbage bin in the end,” Niall tells him grimly. “It’s like the literal scum of the industry attracts kindred spirits.”

Yes, Harry thought, Winston would get along swimmingly with people willing to steal credit from others for personal gain.

An hour later, Harry finds out the hard way all the scenes outside come with a cost: his hay fever has caused his throat to swell up and his eyes are red from leaking. It forces him to take cortisone to open the airways, which is always a gamble since it is unfavourable long-term, but the current climate demands quick results.

He washes the taste down with water and sets off to rehearsals.

 

 

***

 

Louis and Harry are rehearsing their finished cover with the band when Trevor comes in with Niall and Liam, both of whom are looking about as bemused at their required presence as Louis and Harry are about their sudden appearance.

“Oi,” Louis says, “we booked this until four o’clock.”

“That won’t do you much good,” Trevor says with the air of someone trying to break bad news as gently as possible. “The duet pairs have been reassigned. Liam here will be your new partner.”

There’s an outbreak of cries at this. The happiness that has filled Harry since Sunday night is gone. His insides pulse with rage, and he is not alone.

“This late?” says Liam, sounding aghast. “When the songs are already finished? Bloody _sabotage.”_

“On who’s orders?” Niall says hotly.

It goes unanswered.

Harry tries to catch the producer’s eye from behind the crowd, but Trevor’s become very interested in a knotted cord at his feet. Harry saw it coming but that doesn’t mean it stings any less.

Even the band has several well-worded, strong opinions on the matter. Changing the plans this late, when most of the music is already written, does not only affect Harry and Louis, but _all_ people affected by the swap.

“Hasn’t it crossed their minds,” Niall grumbles to Harry as they set to rehearse the finished song together, “that this is all very transparently discriminatory?”

Louis, who in an unsurprising gesture of chivalry insisted Harry and Niall take the turn, is just leaving through door on Liam’s heels. Harry swears he sees a small smirk play at the corners of his mouth before he passes from sight.

“I think it’s the principle that matters most now,” Harry says, still watching the closed door.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure they’ve hurt you two for more than what some wounded pride is worth.”

Harry gives the band the signal to start playing the intro and puts several sheets of notes in front of Niall.

“I’ll do Louis’ parts, you do mine,” Harry says with finality to cover with false poise the fact that his falsetto is nowhere as good as Louis’ bits require. “Some say doing the same thing and expecting different results is a sign of insanity.”

“Really?” says Niall at once. “I’d call it hope.”

‘Hope’ is about the only thing keeping Harry afloat the rest of the evening. He stays separated from Louis until six, at which point he is desperate enough to consider grabbing him in the middle of the hall and dragging him to either of their rooms for a talk—or more. But the less polite Winston cares to be, the less inclined Louis, too, seems to feel about following his orders.

After some hurried snacking to carry them through to the supper, the two of them slip to the first floor past some staff.

“You and Niall doing all right with the song?” Louis asks as they walk along the corridor. “No high-ups come to bother you further?”

“We’ve got the advantage of our long friendship, and nah,” Harry says and thinks that Louis, with his sole, measly cover, will never be told even if they do, no matter how foul things would turn out. It will not be Harry, who invites him further into the mess.

“Good,” says Louis but evidently smells foul play because he squints at him, “Liam and I are doing good. The song’s easier, though … Think we should send flowers to the band for putting up with this?”

“I like were your head’s at but,” starts Harry, “no offence, music is not something I want to talk about right now.”

“Ah.”

They’re in front of their rooms. As Louis wonders out loud how messy his is, Harry looks around. Two crewmembers have just descended from the second floor and, at the sight of them, cease their conversation. One blink later, they pass to the main floor, but not without shooting a look over their shoulders.

“We should use your room,” Louis says, oblivious.

“Sure,” Harry says but he’s hardly aware what he is agreeing to. “Let’s go.”

Once at his room, Louis rounds on him with a quizzical look. Harry silences his ‘So what do you want to talk…’ by cupping his face and pressing their lips together.

It has a desperate quality to it. Unlike yesterday, cocooned by the fields and sunlight, they feel a need to actively block out the outside world and stay in this moment. Louis makes that vulnerable noise at the back of his throat again and this time Harry recognizes it as one of very positive surprise.

When they break off, there’s an odd expression on Louis’ face, as though he’s feeling wonderment at being desired. Pulling back, Harry’s chain catches on the zipper of Louis’ hoodie and it snaps the clasp open. The ring, again, finds itself laying on the carpet of Harry’s room.

“What the—” Louis starts but his eyes widen.

“Didn’t find that bin,” Harry says apologetically with a somewhat self-depreciating shrug.

“…Fuck,” Louis says as if giving into something and surges forward.

They fall back so that Louis’ shoulder blades knock against the door behind them. Harry runs his hands thought that feathery hair with a goal in mind until the outside world intrudes its presence in the form of knocking on the door they’re leaning against.

“Mr. Styles, Mr. Tomlinson,” says a no-nonsense voice. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room. You’re disturbing some of the inhabitants.”

Louis’ hair is almost windblown-looking as though he’s ridden a racy rollercoaster as they feel the moment changing. Harry’s grip on Louis changing. They separate. When they finally open the door, they pointedly don’t look at the faces of the crew, but they must have been very scandalized, since it has a passing Niall doubled over for a good two minutes until he is red in the face.

Over the hours before supper, Harry feels as though he is carrying a talisman on his neck instead of the plastic ring, an immunity that supports him through the last of the filming and interviews. It feels good to resist Winston’s men right under their noses, doing the thing he wanted them to do but now can’t use it for his own advantage.

That night’s supper is laced with a current of wistfulness. Harry can tell some of them are rather professionally forcing it to be cheerful—crew included—yet when their loud laughter fades, their faces fall back into brooding expressions. Trevor, still short with everyone, is losing hair as the night goes along

A part of Harry acknowledges, a little guiltily, that Trevor probably hasn’t deserved to get the anger of both the guests and the high-ups and tries to assume his place in the dialogue better.

Before long, Niall and he are stepping onto the stage, taking a pose in front of the band where the light glints off the brass cymbals, and where the show’s name is printed in the bass drum.

Harry enjoys it. Niall is, as Harry knows from experience, more than a match for his talent, and it is a pleasure to have his highly trained voice next to his own. The years of their friendship allow them to carry the harmonizing faultlessly to the end of the four-minute-long song until Harry’s throat feels stiff with strain and his part of the show’s officially, _finally_ , done.

Relieved, Harry steps down from the platform and lets the applause absorb into him, arm around sweaty Niall. Back at the table, he feels a foot collide with his. Thinking it was an accident, Harry shifts his back, but the leg chases him.

“What—”

The toe of a shoe travels up his calf and comes to a rest midway, only to be joined by its twin. Harry shoots a look at Louis who grins at him, the two feet squeezing briefly at his shin.

That is, of course, the exact moment Trevor pulls them aside to the audio equipment, hands over a pair of headphones and has them listen to their own performance which was, apparently, ‘fuzzy at the edges’.

“Fuzzy at the edges,” Niall mutters when they prepare to redo it. “I’d like to see him retaining a cohesive sound with a week’s worth of sleep deprivation.”

“I love your fuzzy edges,” says Harry, who is still in a good mood.

The second time is acceptable.

The end of the night arrives. Being the last, the knowledge that the cameras won’t be turned on anymore hangs above them like a blanket. They don’t know what to do. The goodbyes turn quickly into one big tug of compliments.

The absolute last scene of the night is filmed with the dark sky lit with fireworks as their background. They explode high above the dock, their colours reflected by the lake and dancing on their wistful expressions in golds, greens, silvers. After it, the birds’ conversations restart to cautiously echo across the night twice clearer tonight now that the lake is serene. Harry’s ears ring with a subtle _buzz_ as he watches smoke curl in clouds over its mirror-like, black surface.

Behind him, the lit manor’s windows stream warm light, set against the indigo sky behind it. Harry sees the back of Louis’ sweater disappear into the night in the middle of a weary group.

“Louis,” he says.

He doesn’t pitch his voice above the chatter, yet Louis stops nonetheless and lets the group pass him while he stays still like a rock in a stream.

Biting his lip, Harry waits for Louis to accompany him at the end of the dock and, though they have kissed two times now and talking should come easy, he succeeds in nothing but thinking of a few flimsy words of goodbyes before Louis fills the silence.

“Seventy-nine.”

“Sorry?”

“I did that list,” Louis says, appearing to deliberate what to say next. “I wrote down everything I loved. I was on number seventy-two before I even realized I was supposed to place my name in there somewhere, and then I came up with six more things I really loved.”

Harry suddenly has a vision of Louis writing it in the light of his copper pendant light, hunching over the piece of paper as rows upon rows of things he prioritized over himself appeared on it…

“I didn’t mean you should _actually_ do it,” Harry says, rather alarmedly.

“Oh, I know.” Louis’ tone is rather conversational. “So, tomorrow’s the day. Have you decided where you’ll record the covers? Manchester might be closest for me if I stay with my family during the break.” Then he bites his lip, looking suddenly shy. “Doesn’t your mum live in Manchester?”

“Yeah, but I already booked a London studio,”

“Oh,” Louis says and leaves it at that. Rather uncharacteristically, Harry thinks and wonders what he might be waiting for, to leave his reply hanging like that.

They stand in silence for another fifteen minutes, Louis humming one of the night’s songs under his breath but stars over several verses as though he isn’t quite happy how it turned out; Harry looking at the dead-still water, wishing more than anything that Robin would be there to give him advice on boys. But only the birds chirp above the steady murmur of Louis’ voice next to his ear.

Is there a way forward for them? Harry feels reluctant to let go; in fact, for the first time in a week, Harry feels certain of which direction he wants his life to take. Though choosing Louis will mean placing himself again under the tyranny of a management hell bent on closeting, there is no question that the pros will more than outdo the cons.

“I don’t want this to be the end of us,” Harry blurts out, surprising himself but not Louis. Harry might just hit himself for being so dense.

“Me neither,” Louis replies, beaming. Harry thinks his accent has never been thicker than at this moment. “Took a while for you to latch on, though. You kept second-guessing all my clues.”

“Really?” With this new knowledge, Harry tries to wind back to where it begun to see a starting point; a glance, a smile, anything. “I really must be oblivious as a…”

He trails off, then realization strikes.

“Is this Manchester studio thing carved in stone or…?”

“No,” Louis says. The torches lining the dock make the shadowed dips of his cheeks look as deep as dimples. “I heard from someone they’re going to use one in London but in that case I’m in need of a ride.”

“Funny, I happen to have a car parked nearby.” Harry casts him a furtive look. “Don’t you want to—meet your family before…”

“They’re in Ibiza, on a family trip.”

“Oh.”

Harry feels a jolt in his stomach as numerous possibilities are raised in his head.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a need for a place to stay, too?” he asks.

Louis’ following smile is dazzling. The spark dances in his eyes like the fire in the torches and Harry comes to realize that it’s been there—it’s always been there for him, since the start.

The week’s been one of the longest Harry’s ever had. It has been cut in two by the change of a month, yet just this handful of official days of summer have felt longer than the entire month of May: the month without Louis, versus the one with him in it.

Looking behind them at the now dark house, Harry realizes they are yet again the last ones to go to bed. He’s in no rush, though. They have lots to talk about.

 

 

Tuesday

 

 

First morning without cameras is a bliss Harry won’t take for granted ever again. He packs his bags, puts the suits nicely into garment bags and hangs them into the roof handles in his car (in a gesture of gratitude for Lambert) and meets the boys in the main hall, waiting for their respective rides. Zayn is lingering around just to see them all off.

“So, we’re leaving,” Harry announces as he passes the main hall with his last suit.

“Louis ready soon?” Liam asks.

“Yeah, yeah…” Harry can’t help the pleased smile. If he knew, this time seven days ago, that in a week’s time he’ll take Louis Tomlinson home with him…

“I gather you talked everything through.”

Harry looks at the three men now watching him avidly and nods. Liam and Niall go into a triumphant victory dance of sorts around Zayn, who indulges them with a faint smile. This goes on for three laps until the stairs behind Harry’s back clatter as Louis comes down, pulling behind his suitcase.

“Everything ready?” Harry inquires. “Toothbrushes, shampoo, all packed? No socks lying around?”

“Surprisingly neat,” Louis says. “Even checked the bathroom, found this.”

He gives Harry his conditioner and Harry pockets it. It creates a large bulge in the loose, beige slacks but Harry is above caring for appearances now that he’s got his man.

“Thanks,” Harry says.

Louis smiles at him reassuringly. Disregarding the boys and any lingering men pulling down tech equipment from the ceiling, Harry entwines their hands. Niall makes a retching noise.

“Gross, you two already planning your wedding here? I heard autumn still has spots available—I’m sure the cooks would fall over themselves to get you in discreetly and on short notice.”

The boys all ignore him.

 “So, you’re what?” Liam asks. “Heading to London now?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, rearranging his one-handed grip on the garment bag. “We’ve got couple weeks free before we have to hit the studios for real, so we’re done by September and” — he glances at Louis for confirmation — “if we run into any of you while there, it wouldn’t hurt to exchange a few words.”

Saying private goodbyes to the boys is not any easier than last night.

“Guess we’ll see around. Would be pity if I had to wait until tour to see all ya ugly mugs.”

“Yeah,” pipes in Zayn to the surprise of most since he’s been hanging in the background, quietly observing until now, “give me a shout, too, if you’re nearby. I’ve had fun, really fun with all of you here. You’ve helped me a lot—to become comfortable with all this.”

They’re all looking at Zayn intently, waiting if he has more to say. When he doesn’t, looking somewhat overwhelmed by the attention, they sweep each other into their third group hug of the week, leading to many promises of open doors if they ever are around a specific house—in New York, LA, London, Yorkshire.

“Take care, mate,” Liam wishes then soon, holding the door open for them, “and you, Louis.”

Zayn calls, “See you soon, Harry.”

“Really soon,” Niall promises with a wink.

Harry and Louis wave one last time and head to Harry’s black SUV, gleaming in the middle of the gravel circle. It’s good he picked the one car tall enough that the bottom of the garment bags won’t spill onto the seats since his vintage cars wouldn’t have fit Louis’ stuff in the trunk. Harry climbs in, wondering about the consequences now.

They’ll still have to continue pretending on tour. Five nasty, exhausting months…but he’ll be with Louis, won’t he? And backstage, there were so many things a fan has no idea of—shared dressing rooms, hotel rooms, black-tinted windows on their rides.

Yeah, Harry thinks, he’s going to enjoy it.

However, the way of the world is that sometimes the bad guy wins, too. They get to keep his job for several more years, succeed in their goal of a popular phenomenon, take the credit of one in a million a chance. But just maybe, somewhere in London, the bad guy will look out the window right now and think that somewhere in the town are the keys to his success. Maybe he’ll even care, wish them well…

Louis opens the passenger door and takes a seat. Once the seatbelt’s on, he takes Harry’s hand above the console, fingers entwining.

The day they can be publicly official isn’t here yet; they can’t say if it will ever be. There’ no shame in putting your own safety first when there’s no proof of a better world, but with someone as selfless as Louis with him, Harry is sure they will, if only to pave way for others less fortunate than the two of them, who are loved.

Hope dies last.

**Author's Note:**

> So,  
> Back in business? Did I spend 18 months writing this and NOT writing my WIPs? Yes. Hopefully you think this was worth it. I do.  
> Europeans might recognize the TV show trope, I was inspired rather heavily by it. Names listed below:  
> NED. De beste zangers van Nederland.  
> DEN.Toppen af poppen.  
> NOR. Hver gang vi motes.  
> FRA. Stars au grand air.  
> GER. Sing meine Song - Das Tauschkonzert  
> SPA.. A mi manera  
> FIN. Vain elämää
> 
> Oh, and the title is definitely the name of the show. You decide if X Factor exists in this universe and a) Winston in just that unimaginative to totally steal it, or b) he's so good buddies with the devil himself he's given the permission to use it idk... I just didn't want to go the song fic route because I hate those. A blast from the past but I just don't want to dictate what songs to listen if you're into that sort of thing. Open YouTube/Spotify and listen whatever you think fits.
> 
> Forgot what I was meant to say after that... Anyway, I think I have finally found my favourite writing style. As usual, comments and kudos are more than welcome. I'm still found on Tumblr under the same name, though I mostly reblog about Marvel nowadays. I probably won't allow translations to this, sorry!
> 
> Have a good May. Ramadan Mubarak. xx. M


End file.
